Work.

Well, regardless of when you’re reading this, I’m writing it at 7:49 in the morning.  I’ve been at work for about 40 minutes now, and I’ve done the usual; made myself a cup of tea, looked at fantasy football information, and stared into space for a good while.  I’ve also eaten a cup of yogurt.  I rushed out of the house today, as I was a tad tardy, and I didn’t have time for breakfast.  “No problem,” I told myself, “I’ll just take some yogurt and eat it at work.”  Well, there was a problem.

I just looked down and behold!  For the past half hour, I’ve been wearing part of my breakfast on my shirt, some crude mockery of a fat man’s “piece of flair.”  I have since removed the yogurt, but it left a spot roughly the size of a toddler’s fist on my attire.  Apparently, the Greek yogurt that everyone’s into nowadays is ingrained into the fabric of my shirt.  It’s a big white spot.  It looks like I’ve just, er, had a bit too much fun.  All over myself.  And that’s great, because I really needed to give these people another reason to hate me.  Most of their coworkers have been laid off, and most of them deserved it.  But I haven’t been, and they seem to regard me as if I were something particularly nasty stuck to the bottom of their shoe.

Now they can say, “Look at the stupid ape, he’s spilled food all down his front.”  It’s not as if I haven’t deserved some of their ire; I’ve fallen asleep at the computer, left a sandwich in the back of the fridge for over a month, and on the first day I even spilled water on my pants, which made it seem to them that I was unable to control even my own animalistic urges.  I guess you could say I’m not going to be invited to the company picnic.

Thank God it’s my last day.

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