“God damn I have a soul-crushing job,” the fucktard next to me announced to no one in particular.
I pried my gaze up from the foamy depths of my pint and turned to him.
“You wait tables at a Sizzler.” I replied. “I spend my days listening to The Least Interesting Man in the World explain how not to grab your secretary’s tits. Soul-crushing? Mother-fucker, my soul is neutonium.”