I’m walking into a thunderstorm of clinks and clanks.

People pigging down Brussels sprouts and sloshing pints of hazy IPA’s down their privileged throats.

Jody is in the kitchen talking to Felicity about the guy she fucked last night.

He didn’t wear a rubber which sucks but at least he’s friends with one of the coolest DJ’s in Wilmington, California.

Erin is in the office giving Jason a lame schedule because he called off the other day.

Excuse me?!

Can we order with you?!

Are you our server?!

We’re ready for some Jame-o shots!!!

The lady talking to me has her tits out for everyone to see but doesn’t want anybody to see.

The weed in my computer desk is blowing up my phone, asking when I’ll be back.

I don’t answer, I’d probably start to cry.

The new Panic at the Disco ripping through the speakers is making my ears bleed, my bones shake, and my head pound.

I’ll hear it again probably another fifty seven times if I’m lucky. Fifty eight if I’m not.

If there was a button for a painless way to opt out, I’d press it right here, right now.

But what am I complaining about?

I just clocked in.

AltaLoma 5:18 pm

Reminding you to eat your cereal with a fork and to do your homework in the dark.

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