Vending machine meals have become the norm at work lately. I don’t mind. I like Sugar Daddies and Dr. Pepper equally well at 9 a.m., noon or midnight. Same with Doritos, Twizzlers and stale cashews.
And I’ve grown so accustomed to the pounding water tunnel construction across the street from my office that it seems unnaturally quiet at home now, with only the neighbors‘ screaming, crashing fights and make-up fucking sessions to cut into my late-night Freaks & Geeks marathons.
But the shootings, I have to say, take things to a different level. Fortunately, front desk security assures everyone that last night’s 50 Cent showdown occurred outside the front door of the building, instead of in the lobby (as originally reported by the AP). Says a coworker:
[This] makes me feel safer since, rather than having to walk out the front door to go home by subway, I can just take the elevator down to the pneumatic tube in the basement and get pumped up the West Side to my apartment.
