Some people keep a coffee maker at their desk.
Others have enough room to fit a mini fridge.
I prefer a toaster.
It’s sort of a statement for me, a concession of the doughy life that I live.
While others in the office guzzle caffeine and hope to eke out an extra ounce of productivity, I peck away at the keyboard and munch on warm carbs.
My coworkers hear the joyous pop of the toaster several times a day. Each time they are reminded of my mediocrity, my proclivity for aimless obsessions.
One week, Tommy (he’s two cubicles down and has no sense of humor) counted how many pops he heard.
37.
“Only 37?” I replied. Must have been a bad week.
I’m pretty sure Tommy complained about my delicious toast to our mutual supervisor.
Didn’t work.
Did Tommy forget our supervisor is my uncle?
Debra (four cubicles down; likes toast; I share with her sometimes) let me know that Tommy snitched to HR too.
Did he forget that my aunt is the head of HR?
In my opinion, nepotism is underrated and people don’t eat enough bread these days.
Pop!
Ope, there goes my toast.
I’m headed to the CEO’s office to see if my dad wants a slice.