An excercise in over-writing a vacuous moment in a boring life.

"We're all just a bunch of queers, anyway," he said to her over a mess of ketchup and home fries. He shoved another fork-full into his mouth, took a half-chew and reiterated himself, this time with immuring sincerity. She looked at him, mostly amused, slightly puzzled; she believed him more than she wanted to admit, especially to herself. He went on: "I mean it. We're all just a bunch of fucking faggots. I'm just wondering when we'll all finally admit it to ourselves and stop breaking so many hearts. It's a wonder I can even sleep at night. Jesus, I've got so much blood on my dick!"
"Uh . . . how's everything going over here? Yinze alright?" the spavined old waitress asked. She had obviously showed up in time to hear him say that he had blood on his dick and now she stood there with a contrived air of insouciance, smug and yet so oblivious to the world around her. Rather than respond he simply glared at her. She raised her eyebrows with mimed inquisition and false concern and then, after finally grasping her imposition, left them alone.
"Ugh! Don't you hate that shit?" he asked her. She was texting. She was always texting.
"Hate what shit?" she asked without bothering to look up from her phone. He didn't answer her. Instead he closed his right eye and imagined stabbing her head off with a giant fork. She caught him doing this, "Real mature, Everette."
"That fucking attitude that old waitresses give you. First of all, she stinks of fucking cheap cigarettes and you can see the fucking stains on her sleeves from jerking off her fat-ass, loser boss in the handi-capped shitter! She's a fucking wreck and she comes over here, barges in on our conversation, and then acts like she's got some kind of social upper-hand because she heard me say that I have blood on my dick. I wasn't being literal, but that dumb cunt doesn't know that. She thinks only in literals and absolutes! and paychecks! and gossip! She's a redundancy; too fucking dim to even battle against her own obsolescence. God, I hate that shit! Fucking look at me like I'm some kind of back-alley rapist. What a dumb, old cunt."
"You know, I think I like you better when you're calling your friends faggots."
"Ha ha ha! I think I like me better then, too."