Who Heated up Salmon in the Communal Microwave?
Alright, everybody. Who was it this time?
I mean, seriously. This absolutely has to stop.
You know it walks the line of inconsiderate. At the bare minimum, it’s not exactly helping with our collective productivity. Some might even call it downright offensive.
I know Harriet does. Sorry for naming names, but she has audibly gagged thrice in the past minute. And when someone in my vicinity does that, I tend to follow suit. Last I saw, she was standing by a small garbage can, slightly retching.
I can’t say I blame her. It’s a jarring aroma. A real shock to, and assault on, the olfactory senses. It smells like a goddamn wharf in here, thanks in part to the open-office concept they’ve been trying to get us to embrace for years now.
I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m not particularly in the mind space for yet another unpleasant distraction. I think we can all agree we get more than enough Slack messages in a given day, and that number need not be compounded by people complaining about and trying to sleuth out who the fuck heated up salmon in the communal microwave again.
I don’t even have time to eat lunch, let alone stand around in a cloud of complacency while I wait for it to heat up. Must be nice to have that kind of bandwidth. (Honestly, it’s not even lunchtime yet, which raises several questions and makes the smell even more intrusive. Part of me wonders who even travels with leftover salmon on their commute. Seems like not the best possible move.) I barely even have the time to contemplate the meaning of life while I attempt to write taglines for this line of yogurt-based dressing. The ideas haven’t been flowing, which is frustrating. A few minutes ago, I reminded myself you never know when inspiration is gonna hit. Figured it had to be soon, or else, because as many of you know, the client absolutely needed to see some fully baked options by yesterday, which, did not happen, so now they’re threatening to put the account under review again unless we deliver something stellar posthaste. They’ve got us under their thumb, for sure. But sometimes them’s the breaks.