The lunch lady liked me too. She was 43 and divorced.

I think she ate her husband. She was huge. Her jeans were so tight, I could see every wrinkle in her butt.

I never understood how she gained weight. Like most fat people, she ate healthy in public, and did obscene things in private.

She grazed constantly from the carrot trough.

Breakfast was served to the sound of Justin Bieber and Michael Jackson, as our kids lined-up to get their chocolate milk.

The regular custodian was not a bright man. He had a shaggy haircut and a droopy face.

He looked annoyed most of the time.

God had punished him with lower intelligence.

If he had only been born brighter, he could’ve escaped this hell.

That’s how I felt.

Every day I went to work, I thought… how the hell did I wind-up here?

3 thoughts on “6.

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