you come from a country that had a vicious civil war for many, many years. in fact, your brother was murdered in the middle of the street in the light of day and his body festered there because everyone was too scared for their own lives to claim it.
somehow despite the war, economic hardship, the threat of death, with hardly any education and just enough money, you manage to get to america, illegally, find a job and bring the rest of your family here one by one on the pay of a dishwasher.
and you call xena because you're' scared ' of the fucking snow????? of course, you called xena instead of me because you were ' scared' to call me. you've been here for over 25 years, i think in that time you've seen a little frigging snow.
listen here, amigo, there is no fucking whining in professional baking, ok? there is no goddamn crying in the muffin biz. let's butch up, hike up our panties and get busy....
of course, i should be grateful you even made it in to work because no one else did, as i suspected would happen. now i have to dig out HAL and fucking look at a bunch of fucking breakfast pastry.
executive pastry chef is just code for being on the jack-off shoe shine tip.
