A rare shot of my hand. I bet this was taken in the morning.

When I was younger I had a supervisor who was fairly cool. I thought I remembered him pretty well but I just tried to recall things about him and came up with a pitiful total of three factoids.

1. His first and last name.
2. He was a heavy smoker, drank craploads of coffee, and was a close-talker. M-O-O-N. That spells “bad breath,” laws, yes! I imagine it was what the world of the DOOM video game smelled like. That breath would stop a Mack truck. But that’s another story.
3. He would never say, “Good morning.”

I’m a little sad that’s all I can remember about him. He was a pretty good guy. But, to this day, to honor him, I never say “Good morning,” either.

If you’re around when I stroll into work, a few things are certain. Well, perhaps “stroll” is too strong of a word. It’s more like Dead Man Walking. It goes without saying that the last hour of my life has not been pleasant, unless one enjoys running around like a chicken with its head cut off. I’m also running a few minutes late, I’m likely hella pissed from bullshit that happened to me on the three-mile commute, I just realized I forgot my lunch at home, and there may be a little foam and spittle.

I may even be clutching my chest and veering to the left.

It is, I think, decidedly the wrong moment to turn to me and cheerfully say, “Good morning!”
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