Three things. One. It makes me mad that my boss cannot spell my name after we’ve worked together, on a daily basis, for over a year. He signs my expense statements, holiday applications and a dozen other documents with my name in the heading. Two. Someone should have told me that Alex was gay. Perhaps Wendy could have kindly informed me, I bet she’d slept with him nonetheless. Three. I still cannot figure this out: who would not be here today, in this building, walking down this hall with the aftertaste of that awful coffee in her mouth if I had not been born? Who would not be here then?
My god, these shoes are killing me.
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