I’m sitting here. That’s basically it, that’s all I do. I sit at this desk and do “work” all day. My boss thinks I’m a great employee, and I am. I get those retarded charts he wanted for the meeting done a few minutes before they’re needed. Most times I just make up the numbers and hand it in, he doesn’t notice or care, he just uses them to flex that he has someone else doing the chart for him. Yearly sales? A few zeroes here, a two or three there, no one seems to notice. I spend most of my workday on Twitter or watching YouTube videos about some Eastern Europeans showing me “life hacks.” I make tweets that are so heavily shorthanded and slang filled that they aren’t recognized as English. The IT guy is a dumbass that was bluffing when he said there was screen monitoring software installed on all company computers.

It’s lunch time; there’s a lunchroom for the lesser employees and interns who must pack a lunch for fear of financial security, but I, a true patrician among plebs, dine on the finest this city has to offer: fast food and overpriced hipster trash. It’s quite the treat picking out what place I’m going to eat at; I don’t go there for the food more so I go there for the experience of being rude to whoever is taking my order. “Vegan restaurants near me,” I tap into Google while waiting in the elevator. “Leek Your Lips,” I read out loud. A pun name, perfect. I walk down the street, listening to some podcast that the patrons of “Leek Your Lips” would listen to in order to get in the right mindset.

I saw the letters spelling out the name above the door; I stopped in front of it, looked up at the name, and let out a big sigh. A smile formed involuntarily on my lips and I felt alive; time to harass some “normal” people. I entered the establishment with glee. “Welcome to Leek Your Lips!” an overweight Mexican employee greeted me with. I ignored him and made my way to the line. There were four people in front of me. The first was a basic bitch white girl; she had on a skintight white top, black yoga pants, and Stan Smith’s, an unholy trinity of mental retardation and the inability to have any free will. The thing that I can only presume to be a woman in front of her is some black or mixed person with a short, bright-red afro. The afro-clad negress wore a leather jacket that featured spikes on the shoulders and a clenched fist on the back; in addition to that, she wore red plaid bondage pants and black combat boots, another epitome of a stereotype. The next person was a relatively normal-looking man; he had a slicked back Hitler Youth—or “undercut” as people call it—he was wearing a plain white button-down shirt, dress pants, and dress shoes he probably got from Macy’s or a comparable department store. He was most likely an intern picking up food for some idiot at his office. The last person in line in front of me, currently having his order taken, is a very strange man; he has on multicolored Asics running shoes, an autism classic. Bunched up on top of said shoes are what appear to be bootcut jeans that are also too long in the legs, resulting in a combination of bunched-up denim and a lacking sense of fashion. Just above that is the tails of a trench coat, a true sight to behold. I continued listening to whatever gay podcast was playing in my AirPods.

It’s finally my turn to order. I wait a second after the person from me walks away from the counter, I put my head down and stroke my chin, then smoothly take a step up to the counter right as the cashier says “Sir?” I stare directly into his eyes and say with no emotion, “Let me get a vegan BLT with a side of chips and a kale smoothie.” “O-okay sir, that will be $15,” he meekly replies. “And make it snappy, faggot,” I add, to the horror of every straight white woman with a gay friend in the building. “Excuse me?” he said in a snarky tone. “You heard me, make it snappy, faggot,” I repeated. The manager was right there ready to ask me to leave and that he did. I had an ace up my sleeve; or, should I say, an N double Ace C P. I reached into my wallet and pulled out a NAACP card with a fake name, Jamal Jaquarius, and showed it to the manager. “I’ll sue,” I said with a smirk.

I tossed the brown paper bag branded “LYL” into the trash and took a seat in my office chair. “Ahh,” I sighed, “what a great day.”