Mongolian Clusterfulck

"Well, if that wasn't a prime example of a Mongolian clusterfuck right there, then I don't know half as much about clusterfucks as I thought I did," you said.
"I don't care what deity I've offended," my cowerker said, "I didn't skull fuck an infant, I never raped a nun, I don't deserve to have Ricky Martin, late eighties Aerosmith, and Brittany Spear's Toxic thrust on me all at once. Or the Knickleback," He shudders visibly. "I'm never surprised, but I am perpetually disappointed by the crap that gets played on the jukebox."

"You drive safe now," you said, to the last employee to meander home save yourself. He had stained a brand new shirt with wine while trying to slam the wrought iron security door closed. He was giggling excessively. You hope he made it home safe.

Time for you to leave. Double-check the storefront. Locked like a chastity belt. Good to go. You flick on you bike lights and check the cross traffic. Execute a graceful yet momentum-building loop out of the parking lot and take off like the devil's own are after you. Speed up and ask yourself if you’re, "doin it?" Answer yourself affirmatively and start the race home. Hit 32 mph and lean your weight to the outside as you scream around the corner at Helena. Listen for the noise of a car approaching the stop sign at Mason rd. Feather the brakes, and then trust your luck. You’re pushing yourself and enjoying it. Your lungs are burning, and your legs are groaning in protest as you fly past the whores and the crack dealers, the transients and the cars. Your completely consumed by the desire to move, the desire for speed. You are the wind.

Home safe. Glance left to right before you unlock the gate. Make sure no one is coming at you. Act defensive if they are. Maybe pull out that taser or that butterfly knife. You can't be to careful in your neighborhood. Go inside your crappy apartment and prepare to sleep, after availing yourself to your food. Food is the shit. Your head hits the pillow as the sun starts the day.