[I velcroed the laptop to my fingers this weekend. Let's see what happened.]
The Monday Work Post
The absolute last thing I ever want to hear at work, other than, “What are you doing on Facebook?” is “What have you got there?” in regards to what I’m about to eat. I don’t know why it’s so painful to talk about what I’m going to eat; typically I have NO PROBLEM shooting the shit about non-consequential things. Ask Nuv. He’ll give you about a million examples. Just something about food makes me crazy. Am I worried about being judged because of what I’m about to eat? Is it the margarine container the food is in that is so white trash but NOT MINE that makes my neck hair pop up? Is it because I normally push my break back so far that by the time I eat I am drooling, have sprouted fangs and don’t have the proper blood sugar in me to even remember my name let alone describe where I bought it/how easy it was to cook/how much I want it to be in me now. Hmm, there’s the key. If I can work porno terminology into my lunch times, I will be left alone for sure.
The maintenance guy at my work is amazing in many ways – his god-given talent for really good small talk and snappy answers to stupid questions, his shock of really white, really healthy white hair, his unplaceable accent. But the clear highlight of him is his pale denim vest with the sleeves cut off. I saw this hanging off a small stepladder in the hall the other day, and I wanted to steal it so badly. Every outfit I own would look better with this on top.