The pincushion.

julie warshaw

don’t cry. you look fat when you cry.

The little whatever-its-called on the top of a door at work broke last week. It’s the thingy that extends when someone opens the door and pulls it closed when they let go. This means that people going outside to the stairs now have to actually use their hands and close the door behind them. No one seems willing to put that level of effort into it. Every time I walk by that damn door, it’s open. It’s making me crazy. And I’m going to say that it’s my love for Mother Earth, not my OCD, which forces me to close it. Every time. Today, our muscular, bald, heat-packing, male “receptionist” brought his girlfriend’s Boston Terrier, Buggy, to work. Buggy vanished around 11:30 this morning and was not found for a solid hour and half, when she was discovered (yeah, Buggy is a “she”) at the bottom of the staircase, on the side of the building with the broken door. This prompted me to hang a sign which angrily states, “close door behind you!” above the door handle. Now, every time I walk by the door, it’s still open and there’s a sign blowing in the breeze making annoying flapping noises.

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