“You never come dowwwn here anymore,” Corine whines, doing that passive aggressive pout thing that says ‘I’m just kidding/I’m really not.’
“Coriiine, I’m sooorry,” I whine back, and give her a nicely wrapped present. I do feel like a dick; I haven’t been down to my old department in weeks. “I’ve been hella busy up there, it’s crazy. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks, Connor,” she says and kisses me on the cheek.
I give out presents to everybody in the department, mostly books. Fred Schneider gets this hilarious book I found, “Molvania: A Land Untouched by Modern Dentistry,” a very authentic travel guide to an amusingly desolate and totally fictional eastern European country. Gail gets a set of cat mugs. Surfer Dave gets a 3-D paper castle model. Dragon Lady gets an Ann Coulter book. Of course, Corine gets a kick ass mini-bust statue thing of David Boreanaz as TV's Angel.
The whole thing makes me sort of miss working in Brand Development. It was like, a normal job, not this weird paranoid world on the Ninth Floor that I’m stuck in, with alien plants and shit.
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Yes, I shalt morn for thouest one-tenth second in minitus of hourland belonging to thyest's house of Day.
Translation:
I feel sorry for you, so seperated from your friends whom are still, and-no offense-probably always will be, in sales.
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