Returning from the restroom, I commented on how my new jeans drag when I walk. "It’s like they were made for long people," I complained.
A few seconds of silence passed and then Eleanore said, "Tall. Tall people, babe."
Then Collin killed my poinsettia. I gave him one job and he failed. Done went and kilt my flower.
But then Kim brought out a cookie cake for Bob’s birthday and I was all, "Ooh, pretty flaming cookie with icing" and then it took Bob longer than an emphysemic ninety-year-old to blow out the candles while I bounced from foot to foot in sugar anticipation.
I was sad to discover, after the cookie-eating festivities dwindled down to a dull roar, that Collin deleted the picture I took of him and my dead plant. I liked it because it was a great comparison shot of the different genera of patheticness that exist in the world.
I tried to sneak a picture of him from the other side of his cubicle wall, but I’m not long enough.