yes, it's that time of the month...

Ok, so if the woman on the other side of the cube partition does that half-cough, clearing her mucus lined throat thing one more time I might be forced to stand up, lean over and beat her with the receiver of my phone until she face plants in the wax paper, balled-up napkin detritus of her mcdonald’s breakfast, the same one she has every day, fucking rain or shine, chewing each bite of that egg mcmuffin at least a thousand times until I can hear the liquefied trans fatty acids squirting back and forth between her swollen, pock-marked cheeks.

Fifteen years and a hundred pounds ago she was a ballet dancer. She has a picture of a pair of slippers on her desk. They are well worn and blackened at the toes and hanging from their laces in such a way that they manage to look exhausted--making you wonder what shape the dancer must be in.

Underneath the slippers there’s a single word: “Determination”.

On the other side of her desk, next to folders labeled “Expense Reports” and “Faxes” and “Letters to be Signed” that are overflowing with the paperwork produced by the horribly condescending woman she works for, there’s an equally hackneyed shot of two fuzzy faced kittens, snuggling together the way grown cats never do.


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