50 more years to retirement

the bathroom smells like cheap perfume – dear intern, please get better perfume. The walls are an insane asylum gray or white? Or gray? Or white? Or yellow from the florescent lights? Or jaundiced like a sick woman’s skin?

No one wants to hear your hiccups even though you think they do. Hiccups don’t warrant sympathy. And no one has any salt. And no I’m not sure why the first row of lights are out or why there’s no soap in the bathroom or why you can’t get the photo into the system (OK I maybe know the photo thing, but you should know that already and i don’t feel like helping you). But I DON’T know about the other things. My name’s not Tommy or Scotty or Mac or Harry. I have a butt-crack, but you can’t see it when I bend over. I don’t have 8 days of scruff. I forgot to put deodorant on today, abut it shouldn’t do too much. The hickey on my boob is evidence that I’m still bleeding, still alive, still bruising, still pumping, still flowing, still beating, still more than an old grayishwhiteyellow building.

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