June-uary.
Broken spokes.
Interns. Eager, earnest interns that laugh and scream in the elevator like it’s a carnival ride.
Assholes 20 wheels back and boxed in who bump you trying to squeeze around after you’ve led out University Hill.
Raccoon-trap-BBQ-chip bags.
My fingers still smell like BBQ.
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(seriously – if anyone has any information regarding the guy who went down on the pothole last night, please let me know…)
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