Here's today's update:
Subject: If you kill the joe, you gotta make some mo'!
I figure this will at least stem the bleeding of my good friend Mike's heart, as he brews pot after pot each morning. But as I go to fill my cup today, I notice the taped sign is gone after only one afternoon in action. On top of this, I watch a frizzy-haired, wide-hipped, glasses-toting lady fill her cup (emptying the pot in the process), and walk away.
Subject: You're at work. And I'm in paradise. (Sucks to be you.)
Paradise Cafe & Bakery in Bridgeport, that is. I'm nibbling on a tasty breakfast croissant sandwich, sipping a latte, listening to the soft yet horribly outdated sounds of Areosmith overhead, and spewing off emails like it's my job. Speaking of jobs, if I didn't have one lined up, I'd totally come to this place on the reg. The sandwiches are huge and delicious, plenty of available outlets line the walls so my dying computer can juice itself, and the coffee is bangin'.
And, now, speaking of coffee, your email is responsible for almost causing a horrendous car accident. I was reading it while zipping down Murray, as I was on my way to the employment office to complete yet another mound of paperwork. (Okay, I guess I'm willing to take some of the blame.) I found myself chuckling -- eyes closed! -- while running yellow lights and swerving in and out of traffic. (Oh, coffee politics!) This didn't scare me, though, because I'm used to this sort of behind-the-wheel excitement.
I really, really hope you have the authority to hire an office linebacker. Let me know how that works out.