Where the fun be at, YO?

Was just writing my mom about how little fun there is in life these days. Sometimes I can't even describe what fun is. I try...
Flying in my dad's plane is fun... riding horses is fun...working backstage at theater is fun. Where is the fun in my every day life now?
I guess I find a moment or two here and there, but too often at work, it's at someone elses' expense. I'm cruel at work. And by cruel, I mean ... downright MEAN.
Like a caged dog, I bark and snap at those who are poking sticks in through the bars.
That waitress at work... the one that set the big steel tea urns down on my twelve inch stainless steel knife so that when I picked up the tea urn the knife arced directly towards my toes, and believe me, I sharpen that blade to a point that would not hesitate in the least at the New Balance nylon that separates it from my flesh and bone.
That waitress.. should I feel sorry for her, pray for her, wish her well? I should.But I'm not at that level of human kindness just yet. I said something to her about not setting the tea urns on extremely sharp knives so that I could nearly stab my own feet.
I was livid. PLUS, the damn knife is what I have to work with. It could have gotten the tip bent. Like the other knife I don't use anymore because someone dropped IT on the floor.
That waitress... I try to be nice. But she keeps doing things that make me want to shake my head and just... laugh.
Oh ... at least there's the cook and the other waitress that I like. We have a little bit of fun, here and there. We're all working our collective asses off, hustling for peanuts in a shitty diner; it's classic diner - action. It's MEL's Diner, and all we need is for Flo to come out and say KISS MAH GRITS!
At least we don't have to wear uniforms. Although I wouldn't mind wearing a white shirt and having decent aprons.
Anyhow, it's a greasy spoon and the classic struggle for getting your every day needs met goes on there, each and every day. We're all addicts, in recovery, with horrid pasts, and hair raising stories. Some have felonies. Some of the people that work there have been in PRISON.
Some have been in JAIL. All have been in HELL, the HELL of addiction. Where you dont' think you are going to live to see the morning and if you do, you are not sure where you'll live, or if you'll ever be able to walk again.
but somehow we manage to feed all those people. I wash hundreds of plates a day and patty out hamburgers and chuck scores of frozen biscuits onto baking sheets to load into the oven... just like every other dishwasher in every other diner in every other city in every other state in this great nation.
And after we close they all light up a cigarette and go about their closing duties with their cigarettes hanging off their lips, trailing ashes as they work. They all want to rush home and... do what? Shower, sit down, watch TV.
Rest. Get away from work for a few hours.
Dear Universe, I know there's more than this out there for me, but I also know that I have to learn to appreciate THIS as it IS before I can go out there and find THAT.
I guess when I learn to be nice to and pray for THAT waitress that makes me want to stab myself in the eye, then I'll be well on the way to adulthood at last.
Meanwhile, I keep looking for ways to have fun at work and keep coming up way short.
I did make a chart on the door frame of our heights, as though we were all kids. I'm the tallest except for the owner.
Imagine that.
I thought the cook was my height.. we got to talking about how a person can be shorter than you but if they act like decent people you dont think of them as short.