“These things, they go away; replaced by every day” 

I ran into a coworker at the supermarket. A red hot needle poked discretely into the recess of my underarm– torture that is unseen; leaves no marks, so I can still function in a capacity productive to my employer. I intentionally go to a supermarket on the other side of town as to avoid this. I don’t want to be in work mode when I don’t have to be. I’m not very good at work mode in the social sense, and I disregard this character flaw with the half-excuse that bland social niceties are a feminine construct and there’s no good reason to excel at anything feminine. Leave me alone and let me do my job– which is something that usually works, in the context of the busybody work place, but falls apart when you run into a co-worker at the supermarket.

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