The colleague who gave me a set of pliers last week brought me another gift:

His landlady was about to throw the mug out as she found it detrimental to her mental health. I see the logic in that: I don’t hate my workplace, and I don’t need my morning tea to screw with me subliminally. Even if the mug holds twice the volume of tea as my default mug.
Continue reading “Holy fuck o’clock.”



