Just overheard near my desk: “Mike, do you want to split a protein bar?” If Mike says ‘yes,’ we can never be friends.
I wish the donuts they occasionally put in the break room better helped me forget my divorce and my failed dreams.
I sometimes walk to the bathroom at work simply as an excuse to leave my desk.
I find the receptionist’s intense conversations with Rebekah about cats very distracting.
I’m not concerned with the volume of my typing and its effect on my coworkers because I believe that each and every keystroke should demonstrate a conviction in the righteousness of your text.
This morning on the street next to my apartment I saw Leonardo DiCaprio driving an old Mercedes. He was wearing a do-rag and looking at his phone. A woman in a Prius behind him honked.
If there were a button that would blow up every leaf blower and every person attached to them, I would press it without hesitation.
One of the things I’m looking most forward to about the apocalypse is being able to park in front of fire hydrants.
The sponges in the kitchen at work smell like mildew, so now my hands smell like mildew.
A surprising number of adults leave their dirty dishes in the sink here at work. I’m thinking of quitting.
The ant crawling on the urinal this morning misjudged both my aim and my scruples against peeing on the rim of a public urinal.
Muffins are the high-end escorts of fattening breakfast foods; donuts are the 2 a.m. street-walkers.