
Last semester I had the worst mailbox in the office. Ground level, right behind where people stand to use the photocopier. I assumed it was for “the new guy,” and that I was being hazed, but it turns out that the boxes are alphabetized, and two people who have last names which begin before “H-O” have been hired by the school since May. I am now upper left, eye level, directly in front of the doorway.
I’m fairly certain that the French I.T. guy at my work hates my guts. It was the same at my last job, but the I.T. guy was American.
The phrase “Old Punks Turn to Reggae” rings true for me.
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