Walking into your office gives me an instant headache. The over-powering smell of fake sugar cookies hangs in the air, and everyone stands around me with tear stained cheeks.
Oh, but the blaring “Positive Hits” radio station sure seems to take away our pain.
How about when you bring up all the mistakes I’ve made that already tear me to shreds.
You tell me you know my type. I’m on a downward spiral. You don’t know me.
I don’t need to sit here and have you make me feel worse and worse.
So maybe you could give me more of those little pills that are supposed to make me happy. Because they sure are working great.