Yesterday, as I was gasbagging with my coworkers about being a short-timer here at the Free Press (yes, I am leaving. I am becoming a circus freak. I figured I have to do something with all this body hair.), I happened to see a baby squirrel crawling out from underneath a colleague’s desk. I stopped in mid-sentence and stared at the small, scared creature, who was clearly traumatized from being stuck in our building for a week. Trust me, lil’ squirrelly, I know what you were going through.
Dear friends who may or may not be the best,
First, I’d like to ask the loud mouth with the radio announcer’s voice sitting a few seats away from me to pipe down. I haven’t gotten my noise-cancelling headphones yet (birthday present hint, hint, hint), so I still have to listen to your insufferable gasbagging, which, incidentally, is the only sound that permeates the tunes I’m jamming out to. For the love of all that is awesome is this world, like slip-on shoes, pandora.com, Necco wafers (yes, flipping Necco wafers, son!) and musical theater, put the brakes on your yapper.
Thank you, BF’s for indulging me in a little rant. But how am supposed to churn out hilarity when my thoughts are being drowned out by the extreme verbosity across the room?