Dramarama

After yet another uneventful day at the insurance depot, I'm finding myself wishing more and more that something really dramatic would happen. If you were to go back through my old journals, you would find that my life, up until late 2004, was one big dramatic event, and if it wasn't, it could certainly be portrayed as such ("Dan brought ketchup into the house again, in a flagrant stab at my No Condiments Ever rule. How could he betray my trust like this? How?" The rest of the page obscured by ketchup-fueled tears).

But Ben and I don't really fight that often, and the drama of any fights we do have is exhausted within a day of constant rehashing ("Hey orders mayonnaise with his burgers. Maaayonaaaise!"). And the most dramatic thing that has happened at work in a long time is The Mysterious Lunch Snatcher, who is being portrayed in various intraoffice memos as the worst thing to happen to humanity since the invention of the hydrogen bomb. And although I am, in general, opposed to theiving, I cannot allow myself to get too worked about this, since

1. If someone stole my lunch, I would have no choice but to go to the mall and have Chick-Fil-A.
2. Today a woman found an object in the fridge that could not be identified by sight, touch or smell. So if he wants to go for that, be my guest.
3. Does the fact that the Snatcher steals food from others perhaps indicate that he is not being paid enough?

So, in order to weave some drama into this otherwise lackluster day, I am forced to pick a fight with you. Here goes:

Y'alls are sons of bitches and your butts smell like gasoline!

Let the dramarama commence.