Shut up, vending machine. You don’t know my life. 

Let the record show that I just got up to get cookies from the office vending machine, and I had to extract my belt buckle from the fat on my belly. (“Buckle” makes it sound like I’m a big burly cowboy swaggering into the saloon through swinging doors. It’s more of a “loopy bit,” but that’s not as clear.)

And then the vending machine took my dollar, twirled its swirly metal ring around my Famous Amos cookies, pushed them ALMOST to the front, and then just let them sit there. As if to say, “Hey, fuck you, fattie. Did you really just pull your belt buckle out of your fat and have the massive, chrome-plated balls to come to me for cookies?”

I know, right? My vending machine is a judgey whore.