The Downward Spiral.

The answer to who I've met downtown is mouth-breathers in the elevator. It stops on every single floor to let in a bumbling jackass or two or four until I'm pinned to the wall within inches of my life with someone's leather manpurse rammed in my face. Unable to get air, I slip in and out of consciousness until I end up muttering the holy rosary. When I come to, I notice them all turned and staring at me. I have quickly learned to use the freight elevator, with nary a mouth-breather and only the occasional freight in it.

The fifth floor is lonely and ominous, home strictly to us and the executive office. Stuffy suited types go in and out in silence, noses buried in their Blackberries. I watch this and only this through my sad little prison cell-esque window into the hallway. I had heard from my old building that all the little people were intimidated by the fifth floor and that they don't dare go round there. I was hoping it wasn't true. It's true.

The drive there is stressful. The parking garage is stressful and expensive. Darting across the train tracks to get to overpriced food at lunch is stressful (I don't dart). Driving home is stressful. By the time I get back to my residence, I want only a drink and a dark room. I haven't even the will to watch Teen Mom anymore.

I just want an Iranian guy to call me a lesbian again.