I was going to write a micro-fiction, but my brain seems to have gone into stand-by mode. I can’t think of a fucking thing that doesn’t involve comets or toilet paper.
What does that say about me? Other than the fact that I need sleep.
Back to work tomorrow. That should be interesting. Whole lot of things to talk about there. Nothing I care to talk about. Or think about. This job is slowly sucking away what I have left in my poor diseased head-meat.
I would like to see my boss come out of the bathroom and say “Hey! There’s no toilet paper!” And then have a small chunk of comet streak out of the sky and smite him down with the wrath of billions of years of momentum and icy-firey doom.
And then I would look down at what was left of him in the crater. And I would throw the toilet paper down in the hole and say: “Well, I don’t think you’ll be needing this anymore.”
See what this has done to me?
Maybe something good tomorrow.
AB
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(@ Quickchek)
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