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on my condition, excerpts

office:

The traffic whips around her as she contemplates the swirl of cream in her coffee. People here pick their noses and proceed to touch others and their belongings. Through the door, down the hall, her socks fall around her ankles. Hi, she says to the woman with all the kids. She reaches for the warm chocolate down the front of her trousers, and knows this will all be over in just eight hours. At lunchtime she'll go to the park, she'll sit under the tree that ends in pitchfork and frayed nerves. And like a good, big girl, not sit on anything very dirty. She'll come back through the doors, pull her hat off, and sniff the air smell out of her hair. But what follows her? What is biting at her ankles? Buy better socks honey.

tiles:

A trip to the restroom turns into a shouting match between the air dryer option or paper towels. There's no way she's putting her hands under that dryer. By the time her fingers dry, it will be way past five and maybe the front door will be locked. And then soon the janitor will be in. He'll be smiling and maybe he'll make her get on the floor with all it's germs and worlds of filth. Paper towels are the best way to go. nut job.

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