I remember a time when I liked my job. When I was young and I aimed the stapler to a perfect 45 degrees at the corner of the page. I felt bad using the copy machine for personal jobs and I used the same pen until it ran out, instead of now how I use the same pen until I drop it on the floor, then throw it away and get a new one.
Somewhere down the line I lost that.
Now all I can do is whisper an audible “WHAT THE FUCK?” every time TMJM (“The Most Jewish Man”) walks past my desk and, without stopping or looking at me, says something like, “They said party cloudy and I didn’t bring my sunglasses,” with the word “sunglasses” trailing out as he turns into his office.
Let’s just say that if farting out in the open at your office is an indication that you don’t like where you work, I think I need a new job.