Someone put the boxes in the storage room in the wrong order, which means we have to take them all out and put them back in the correct order, which is not the worst thing that’s ever happened to me, but it’s still pretty annoying.
“I’m not mad, I’m just mad,” I say to no one in particular.
“I think I’m gonna start saying things like that,” says the soft spoken southern man I work with, overhearing me. “Like, ‘I’m not mad, I just hate you.’”
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