8:03 AM: The office supplies hand soap in the kitchen, next to the sink. There is a cabinet full of it. Bottle after bottle, just lined up there. But these old ladies in the office pretend like they paid for it themselves, so they want to get every last drop out of that bottle.
This morning, I tried to wash my hands, but the soap had been diluted so much that it shot out like a Super Soaker and got all over the counter. Day 701.
9:57 AM: The giant, annoying IT Director who tells me to “smile, why dontcha?” doesn’t wash his hands in the bathroom.
1:30 PM: Mrs. O’Leary came back with a delicious smelling lunch. She got a 3-piece meal from Popeye’s with a side of mashed potatoes and dirty rice. I can’t think of a time that I’ve seen her eat a full lunch, so I am both jealous and impressed.