Quality of Life

“What quality of life?” she asked as once again she set out to walk through a lightning storm to squeeze into an underground metal tube filled with total strangers every bit as grouchy as she but with considerable less manners and con artists screaming at the top of their lungs about their own personal tragedies hoping for a shake down only to exit at her destination, an industrial building built without any care to quality and painted in colors of putrid teal and coral, which must have been inexpensive because clearly no sane person would ever wish to have direct contact with such ugliness to then enter her classroom where half her charges had decided to simply not show up because — well, at least they showed creative minds in their myriad of excuses.

And I kept thinking, “should I run away to the country and start roasting coffee?”