[Some freewriting from earlier this week].

I told him to stay the fuck away from my cookie tray. In fact I’ve told him once if I’ve told him a thousand times. But that bastard at the end of the hallway, the guy who works in Accounts Receivable, must be deaf. He’s constantly nibbling at my cookies, and he leaves no cookie unnibbled; neither the rum raisin nor the ginger snaps nor even the fruitcake bites, the greedy fucker. But this year, well, this year I’ll be damned if I put up with it. Not again. I bake all weekend so that my BFFs, Wilma and Doris, my office ladies, can have a few damn Christmas cookies to soothe their frazzled minds. All the shit they put up with. At the hands of yours truly. But oh no, no sir, Mr. Eats-It-All swoops in like a goddamn Dyson and practically tilts the whole fucking tray into his mouth. Big as a swamp. Looks like one too, he opens it up so wide you get a pretty good view. Well, I’m going to give him his own personal tray this year, a special tray. And let me tell you about 45 minutes after he stuffs that mouth of his he better be real close to a bathroom, because the crapper will be his throne for the rest of the day.