>I Always Have Waitressing

>Herman Melville turned in his manuscript of Moby Dick, flushed with pride, certain he had a masterpiece, certain he would achieve fame at last. It was panned critically and ignored by a public whose attentions had flitted to the Wild West. He died in obscurity, a customs agent.
Stupidly, stubbornly, I inch my way to the front of this long, long line.

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