I did it. I reached the door. Now, I regret everything.
Sartre writes that hell is other people. Obviously, he had never been here.
I’m not a complainer, but I’m the only employee who shows up for work.
I gave Bill a haircut today. Now he’s bigger than ever.
Bill, my desk plant, keeps growing. He won’t stop growing. Dear God, make him stop growing.
It was a snug fit, but I managed to pull myself up from the bottom of the lunch box.
“Hello,” I said. “I bet you weren’t expecting to find me here.” I wasn’t.
How much time passes at the bottom of a lunch box? Minutes? Hours? None at all?