it's bad, fried chicken and doughnuts.

stop looking at me all creepy, you greaseball. trust, there's nothing under the 10 layers i'm wearing that you want or that wants you back.

oh my, big mac.

i see how you work, you evil temptress. just when i think i'm out of your grasp, you sneak back into my thoughts and recapture my heart. well, you win this time. but know that i'm onto you.

not so fast, turkey sandwich.

don't let people walk all over you, turkey sandwich. stand up for yourself every once in a while. nobody likes a doormat.

why, thank you, chickpea salad.

your mom really raised you right. it was so polite of you to hold the door open for me as we walked into the building. especially seeing as how i was RIGHT behind you. thanks!

were you raised in a barn, gatorade?

ewww, could you wipe the treadmill after you're done using it? it looks like a fucking water balloon filled with sweat exploded all over this thing. there are paper towel dispensers on every single wall in this stupid germ-infested gym. use one. or 12.

i can't believe how rude you are, buttered roll.

in order to get by me, you had two options: politely say excuse me, or shove past like a fat little bulldozer. clearly you chose the more annoying of the two options, or i wouldn't be writing this.

stand back, hot pocket.

you're literally standing so close, that if you moved your leg even 1 millimeter, you'd be sharing my pants with me. and that's not a good thing.