"Pretty good."
That's my stock answer when somebody at work asks how I'm doing. It doesn't mean anything.
Especially today. I'm numb, depressed, bored, anxious, and tired. I just want Richard Gere to walk through those elevator doors and take me away from all this.
If I have to hear Craig's New York Bronx accent one more time today -- I'm draping myself in a Confederate flag and going on a killing spree.
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