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epitome of incomprehensibility
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Goes jogging for half an hour. Drinks a whole Grape Crush, a flavour she doesn't even like. Eats a croissant, three chocolates, and two Laura Secord gummy candies.
Watches pop music videos.
Watches someone making fun of a pop music video.
Thinks: "Ariana Grande keeps trying to be sexy and she's too cute to make it work."
Thinks: "It's like Grape Crush pretending to be alcohol."
Thinks: "That's petty. I'm just jealous because I'm cute too, but she's a prettier level of cute. Well, I'm more of a Dangerous Woman. Does that comfort me? No. Where's the sugar?"
Thinks: "One comfort I have is that I've never done anything that could be classed as sexual harassment... unless it's that time I loaned G. from class a quarter and joked I was his sugar mama. We were equals, though, and I wasn't seriously demanding sexual favours. Besides, what sexual favour equals a quarter in the imaginary sexual marketplace? But sugar. Sugar is a problem.
Huh. A problem. My supervisor of summer camp days bragging about molesting a barely-conscious drunk guy at a party: this happened, at least in her telling it. At least my supervisors now just get mad at me over mistakes I made in April. Data entry into the Almighty Google Calendar is sacred.
Work. I ate all of N.'s stale licorice allsorts without her express consent last month. I just kind of assumed she didn't want them. This is the wrong attitude.
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