I got home from the studio. My mother called. I thought you said the camera only added ten pounds, she said. Then I drank a bottle of vodka.
Tagged: Work (581)
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On foggy street corners in quaint European capitals, spies huddle in their trenchcoats, bemoaning their sex lives, eating poorly. So poorly.
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My mother always told me I was beautiful inside, but I’m a doctor now and I’ve seen a lot of insides and her words are hollower than bamboo.
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I was shopping for socks and a salesman came up to me and said, These are quite lovely, and I said, I don’t care. I’d never felt more alive.
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She knew he was a chef and that’s why she asked him if he braised with soda and he said, That’s a good idea, and so she called him a foodie.
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The coffee is weak, like a song without a melody, that’s what I say, but the waitress has heard it before, though not as poorly as I put it.
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I had been picking my nose. The sexiest woman in the office entered the elevator. I had a booger on my finger; the cologne had been a waste.
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The new hire storms into my office wearing a parka. I deserve a promotion, he yells. It’s summer outside. I didn’t say overdress, I clarify.
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Every spy movie is about the sex lives of spies. She said this at the height of her sincerity. I heaved out a disgusted sounding “Oh yeah?”
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He orders a double cheeseburger and notes the annoyingly judgemental look on the beefy waiter and says, At least I have a speedy metabolism.
