I want to say something, to break the acid silence with a joke, but I抦 not sure it抯 possible.
Should I remind him he抯 an entitled douchebag?
That he抯 pretty freaking lucky I didn抰 spit fifty bucks?worth of roll at his stupid grumpy face?
It doesn抰 matter, though.
I don抰 have time to come up with the perfect f-you before he抯 turning his massive back to me and stomping off, muttering quietly.
He rounds the corner of the coffee shop and keeps going without a single look back.
Jeez Louise. Shouldn抰 a guy with that much money and even more ego have a ride?
Whatever.
Not my problem.
I need to get to work.
Rent won抰 wait for my one-year anniversary personal hell, or encounters with strange men who get in my face about giant pastries.
I take off for the office with three quarters of my Regis roll remaining. I抣l enjoy it for its baked perfection, but keeping the precious cargo from Hot Shrek gives me just as many endorphins as the sugar rush.
Captain McGrowly and his mantrum pissed me off so much that I pedal like my life depends on it. I reach the office with time to spare, devouring all the frosted cinnamon goodness before I force myself to deal with the rat race inside.
Just a few more weeks and you抣l be out of here. You抳e got big plans. You can do this.
Later, I repeat the mantra over and over when someone who earns twice my salary makes a mistake that throws the whole project into chaos.
Typical day at my overworked, underpaid copywriting position.
I抦 at work past sunset in a desperate bid to fix it.
I wish Cinnamon Roll Luck and the high of my little victory would抳e lasted longer.
Instead, I抦 back in my craptacular reality where the only poetry I write is an ode in sweat to fixing everybody else抯 problems.
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