and yet, miraculously, i have no transfats.

a conversation i had at the Xerox machine on friday afternoon:

"you smell like a candybar."

i suppose there are worse things i could smell like.

he walks away. i walk away and take a seat at my desk. suddenly, from across the room, over the heads of more than a few co-workers, he shouts,

"Butterfinger! you smell like a Butterfinger!"