He wore the most conventional plastic leather outfits.
—Robert Glück
They keep laughing and snorting in my department.
Or in my general direction. All I have to say about this
is “I am asleep. At work. In pain. My foot. For lunch.”
Over here, I should probably ask for some water. It
probably won’t happen until I snap. And when I do
snap, I’ll do it silently, whispering “Garçon?” as you
look at me with such distaste. All I get a kick out of
is you. This is so incredibly true that I fiend for just
twenty minutes (or so) on some sort of ski-like machine.
But what do I get instead? Blisters. In my ears. To
the tune of When the Missiles Whistle.... The perfect boy-
friend. I mean, seriously, is that even an actual song?
