It hurts more than I let on. 20 delusional TXT-messages sent probably to one of those computers sitting in--I think of like that fucking movie? What movie was it? like NASA--and some guy turns around, MOrpheus, dude your fucking girlfriend is sending you like fucking 20 messages on your fake fucking phone. Dude. Answer. Because it's out in big room. IN practically public. His boss reads it. His wife reads it. The guy down the hall reads it. Hey. Morpheus. Answer. NO.
NO. Morpheus is sitting on a computer a few rows back.
Working for NASA. NOt really. But you get my point. And he;'s looking over it, quickly, going, bleh.
that's it. Bleh.
And I cry.
And the guy next to him wants to cry. Because his girlfriend dumped him last week. For real.
No comments:
Post a Comment