Today's writing

I didn’t just want to return to California. I ached for it the way that we ache for any solid addiction. I palmed my yearning, hiding it, but barely. Anyone within six feet of me knew.

The day I was offered the job, the copy machine threw its toner. I found out the way I was presented with all official bulletins: Cecily emailed me while basically staring at me through her glass wall of windows. God, I hated the bitch. I didn’t understand that this was boss and employee, office and workers, the fucked-up game of Russian nesting dolls that is the modern professional environment.