...different cooking implements under her boobs, a spatula, a whisk, a spoon, a sieve. She scurried off and put together her website, kitchen-boobs dot something or other I guess, and I had to stay up most of the night adding new tags to my database: spatula, whisk, spoon, sieve. I guess the lesson here is that no conversation that begins with a woman asking you if she’s fat ever ends well.
    Anyway, none of that matters because I still had Angie draping herself over my cubicle telling me about all the crazy things she and her girlfriends did last night after happy hour or ladies’ night or whatever the hell that thing is where you pack a bunch of secretaries into a karaoke bar and load ’em up with two-for-one margaritas. This conversation happened every morning, and I could feel all my brain cells shutting down, one of the many micro-purgatories...