It is 9:43 PM in SeaTTTle. The rain is hammering against the automatic doors like a thousand tiny fists demanding entry.

A "customer"—a local enthusiast of fentanyl and screaming at invisible birds—decided to liberate the contents of his bowels into the organic bulk quinoa bin. The smell is distinctive; it smells like the death of the American Dream.

Naturally, the unionized janitorial staff is on a mandatory "micro-break" until 2026, so the task fell to me. I grabbed the mop, feeling the polyester of my vest chafe against my soul.

I went to the back office to get the hazardous material sign. There sat Tabitha. She was balancing on a purple yoga ball, consuming a family-sized bag of Flamin' Hot Cheetos with a mechanical, rhythmic crunch. Her fingers were stained a violent red, like she had just performed surgery on a Muppet.

"Tabitha," I said, my voice trembling with the suppressed rage of a thousand ancestors. "There is a bio-hazard in the grains. I need you to call security."

She didn't look up from her phone. She just licked a finger and scrolled. "Can't, Evan. I'm in a 'Wellness Silo' right now. Corporate says if my cortisol spikes, I get comp time. Also, you need to sign this grievance form. You looked at a cashier with 'aggressive eyes' yesterday."

She handed me a sticky piece of paper.

I walked back out to the floor. A Chad—6'2", jawline like a granite cliff, wearing scrubs—walked past. I instinctively reached up to check my hairline, praying the fluorescent lights weren't gleaming off my scalp. He looked at me, then at the mop, then at the quinoa pile. He didn't say a word. He just looked at me with pure, unadulterated pity.

He bought a single protein bar and left.

I dipped the mop into the grey water. The "customer" is now asleep in the floral department. Tabitha is ordering DoorDash to the loading dock.

Yes, friend.

This is fine.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5800480&forum_id=2.#49448003)