November 16, 2007
Sometimes, when I am at the writers’ room, supposedly working, I am instead staying busy trying to answer a very important question: Who is the weirdest person at my writers’ room?
Is it the nattily dressed guy with the spacey grin who shits every afternoon during peak work hours in the one communal bathroom and never uses the air freshener?
Is it the guy who sits in the corner and grunt-coughs every thirty seconds or so, as though his bong needs a thorough cleaning?
Is it shrieky-laugh lady, the one who was talking really loud the other day about her scabies?
How about the snotty twink who got mad at me when I tapped him on the shoulder to tell him his headphones were leaking sound and I could hear his shitty taste in music?
What about the guy who said into his cell phone, in earshot of everyone, “You have to meet my guru, he’s really helped center me”?
Or is it the chick who took off her boots and stretched out on the couch for a nap this afternoon, during which she both drooled and snored?
Because that last one…that was me.