Seriously. I do my best to not be superficial, but the reptilian part of my brain is driving pretty strong to the hoop these days. We're talking Thunder Dan Majerle-strong.
Maybe my biological clock is ticking. I'm twenty-seven now, and I have no issue to my name. Who will carry on my legacy? I'd be a real sad-sack if I couldn't even crank out at least one kid during my run on Earth.
Anyway, you heard it here first: Office Depot has to be the suckiest place to pick up hot chicks. Ever. I mean, you'd think the place would be crawling with 'em, what with all the touch lamps and replacement toner cartridges and paper shredders and shit. Hot chicks are entering the workforce in greater numbers than ever, and you best believe they need office supplies. Yet I saw neither hide nor hair of them today after I swung by after getting my t-shirt cannon serviced. I can't wrap my head around it.
Maybe they have assistants who go on Office Depot runs for them. That's probably it. Next time I go back, I should try to track down a sharp-looking gay guy and ask him if his boss is a hot chick.
I'll bet this-week's root beer float money she is.
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