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“You goddamn, flipping piece of crap, son of a hot potato!” Danny yelled, shaking his fist at the current bane of his existence. “You were put on this earth to torment me, weren’t you, spawn of Satan? Don’t even try to deny it.” The copy machine did not, in fact, try to deny it. “That’s what I thought,” mumbled Danny, a trifle smugly. Then he remembered he was talking out loud to an inanimate object in the middle of the night, and all smugness was forgotten.
“All right, Danny, let’s stop creating distractions for ourselves. Also, let’s stop talking to ourselves. We’re embarrassing us.”
Was this maybe a new surgeon? That would explain the sociopathic stare.
