Stairwell Aficionado
It's that time of the month, again, folks. I've been spending a lot of time at school--The Evergreen State College, that is--Jefferson Middle School's security has my car on file. Most of my time there is spent working for Aramark CEO Lord Eric Foss, "may his vocal cords resonate across time and space."
The stairwell I picked was one that I'm quite acquainted with. We go way back; four years ago we had an affair together while my then wife Elle Veytur was out of town. Did you laugh? Please clap.
This stairwell reflects your standard employee: cold to the touch, emanates loud sounds when walked on, and, surprisingly, alright on the taste buds. The grit factor was low. I was left with only one unknown object in my mouth. But it was so smooooth. People always compare smoothness to a "baby's bottom" but when I compare the same thing to seniors' dentures, suddenly I'm the black sheep in the room, caught red-handed with his pants down. That's a twelfth birthday I'll never forget.
The stairwell goes up from floors 1 to 3, but it also goes down to the sub lab, where the Legion of Doom rents space. Those fuckers have just DESTROYED the plumbing. I'm pretty sure Black Manta doesn't even defecate, but he leaves the bathroom walls dripping with fish blood. The janitors are paid off to not ask questions. We lost a cook down there once, but she always bragged about being ambidextrous and it really chaffed my nips, so IDGAF.
All-in-all it's a mediocre stairwell. Do not recommend.
