Here’s a tip: Don’t steal my fucking pens.
I don’t know from which universe you hail, but in MY universe pens don’t appear out of nowhere; I have to buy them. I choose to buy decent pens that don’t explode or refuse to write; they cost me more than those shitty cheap pens, but I think they’re worth it. Except that time and time again, I come back to the table to find my pen gone.
Newsflash: the restaurant doesn’t provide the servers with pens. You’re stealing from us and the only way I’m going to forgive you is if you left me a tip that’s over $15. That’s right. My pens mean that much to me. I hate getting out, I hate shopping, and I hate buying shit that I know is just going to get stolen again. And I hate that you think it’s okay to take my pens.
I’ve chased people out the door, hollering, “Ma’am! You have my pen!” and they ask incredulously, “Oh, do you need that?” Uh, yeah. I fucking need that. I WANT that, because I PAID for it, and you were supposed to borrow it, not steal it.
Don’t steal my pens. You just piss me off and cost me money. And don’t think I won’t chase you out the door to get it back.