On a mess-of-stress scale from one to ten, I’m somewhere between shredding my DIY manicure with my teeth and I regret to inform you, Miss, but you’ve spilled the contents of a burrito down your shirt. I’m not kidding.
I’ve been working through this monstrous pile of documents for forty-five minutes with beans drying on my boobs.
I have bean breasts.
I don’t care.
Well, I care a little.
I care enough to grimace each time I shift and feel the gritty squelch of thirty to one hundred bean carcasses making their way enthusiastically to second base.