Blather the janitor
Mather, I do remember our meetings, but I have a totally different recollection of each. When I walked into my office, you were already there, sitting in my chair, looking at a porn site on my computer, the monitor showing a naked underage boy doing something with a microphone to a donkey. You whirled around, startled, a kleenex wadded in one hand and a tweezers in the other. I'm afraid you were masturbating. That's why I wasn't very polite when you drooled hello. I felt awkward.
As to the later encounter in the bathroom, you can imagine how uncomfortable I felt when you staggered out of the stall, mumbling a spittle-drenched greeting, gripping your trusty tweezers and offering another soggy kleenex like a gift. I do apologize for being distant. I simply wanted to discourage further intercourse with someone so obviously damaged. I hope you're doing better, and the tips you get driving a taxi allow for a more fulfilling career than cleaning toilets or mistaking your secretions for art. Yours, Jefferson Carter
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