Globe's Speed Teller service over at The Annex is the shit. Each time I get to pay a bill in less than two minutes, angels of the customer service world rejoice with white doves flying off to the sunset and violins playing in the background.
Sticking my hand out at all these more-than-enthusiastic sales ladies as I pass through the department store makes me feel like a Jedi. "I am not the customer you are looking for."
Elevator attendants have one of, if not the most mind-numbing jobs in the world—standing in that poorly ventilated confined metal box for hours; with three layers of clothing and eight layers of make-up on. Damn. Floor sir? Going up. Thank you for riding.
Colours phased out my favorite pants. Being the principled, plain-vanilla creature of habit that I am, I find it disturbing when this happens. I ought to buy fifty pairs of black Chucks and keep them in storage just in case.
If I hear "We've got it all for you!" one more time, my eardrums will implode.
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