I was morosely picking a disgusting frozen wrap apart to isolate its more edible components and wondering what the hell else I was going to eat tonight besides three water chestnuts and some stringy onions. Just then, Joel called to tell me he'd left his Mulligatawny soup in the office fridge and I could have it if I wanted. Fucking perfect timing; if I were the squealing type I would have.
Now for the bad news: My smoking buddy, Amy, is out sick today. That's bad for her and for me. A bunch of my coworkers quit smoking after the new year, and Amy's been making vague noises about quitting lately. Getting sick might be the impetus she needs.
I should encourage her to stop, I know, because she's not just my smoking buddy, she's a friend for whom I wish all good things. That includes pink lungs. Still, I'm terrified she's going to quit soon, leaving me to smoke outside in the cold dark by myself.
I mean, jeez, can't everybody just wait until I'm ready to quit? Then we could all do it together, and bring each other hard candies and salty snacks and extra patches. When the stress got to be too much for us, we could snort rails of Wellbutrin off my desk and beat the shit out of each other in the parking garage.
Come on, it'll be fun.