The fifth floor is lonely and ominous, home strictly to us and the executive office. Stuffy suited types go in and out in silence, noses buried in their Blackberries. I watch this and only this through my sad little prison cell-esque window into the hallway. I had heard from my old building that all the little people were intimidated by the fifth floor and that they don't dare go round there. I was hoping it wasn't true. It's true.
The drive there is stressful. The parking garage is stressful and expensive. Darting across the train tracks to get to overpriced food at lunch is stressful (I don't dart). Driving home is stressful. By the time I get back to my residence, I want only a drink and a dark room. I haven't even the will to watch Teen Mom anymore.
I just want an Iranian guy to call me a lesbian again.