An underrated phrase has to be 'They're usually not this bad.'
"They're usually not this bad."
She says, gripping the arm of her metal chair to minimize the visual trembling from her caramel brownie sundae-powered rumblers at the Ice Cream Parlor. She mentally pats herself on the back for choosing the the far corner outdoor seating...This time.
She huffs to herself with a pout, a hazy flush on her face as her large birthday cake cold brew latte has her toots coming out so warm, it's causing condensation to form on the metal walls of the elevator. Thankfully she's always the first to arrive in the office, the elevator will air out before people start flowing in. Always does.
She drunkenly mutters into her hand, faking that she left her phone at the table to separate from the girls and drop a few bombs, the deep, bassy, bubbly ones are quick to heat up the cushioned both seat. It should be illegal for edm clubs to serve Veggie Samosas, practically a war crime that they're actually good too.
She mutters under her breath as she feels all of her cheek meat rippling from a seemingly endless guttural fart roaring through her sleep shorts-covered rear. Bar crawl hangover aside, she's appreciative of the loud ass semitruck 'covering' for her at the red light of the crosswalk she's trying to clear. She can smell that they, at some point, went to Buffalo Wild Wings, as per tradition when they get blackout drunk. She's so out of it it hasn't even occurred to her that she's on autopilot, heading towards the big golden arches with her go-to breakfast order subconsciously ready.
She groans as she wakes up, the third or fourth comforter rippling fart did the trick in waking her up, her phone screen reading the time and April 21st. She glances at her desk to see the carnage of emptied pre roll tubes and about two different emptied pizza place bags.
