University of Springfield Restaurant  I walk away from a house where I am. I hang onto a string and let it out as I walk. I go down a block looking for a Hungarian restaurant that I have been told is there. I don't find it, but I see another restaurant. It is the University of Springfield restaurant and bookstore. I'm inside. The place reeks of upper-middle class pretentiousness, an uptight hangout hotspot. I don't like it. The people here don't know the meaning of life. Then I'm working at the place cleaning and waiting tables. I take orders from a short fat lady that I have no respect for. I don't listen to her. I hate her. I steal tip money. I take a deer antler that was on a table even though she tells me not to. I don't listen to her. There are four, five, or six gallons of milk left on a table by the women that were at the table. They only had a sip of the milk, with cookies.