Who is to blame?

Running through the streets of Manhattan as if I'd just stolen someone's hand-bag. I knew I'd be late. As I'm running I can't help but think of that damn women whom I felt it polite to hold the door for while obtaining my morning latte. Her and her 12 different custom-to-order lattes set me back at least eight minutes. Eight minutes is like five hours when there is a 9:00 deadline and an 8:00 meeting with people who might actually start to appreciate my talent and give me something real to write about. Instead of this movie review crap that i have been writing for the last 2 years. It hurts to have a story and nobody feels secure enough to read it or to let me write it. Finally, as I approached those heavy, brass doors the fact that I had just run 16 blocks in stiletto heals and my neatly pressed pant suit began to sit in. Slightly desheveled I took a deep breath and opened the door to a meeting that appeared to be ending. I ran in hoping they would all just sit down, but they didn't. Eight minutes they had waited and my story was over. Why why why? I said as I smacked my head down upon that cold glass table top. Serves me right for helping that women. Not only was she probably on time she also had 12 lattes for everyone at her office. Isn't the world sick? While ignoring about 15 people on my way downstairs I bustled through my purse for my last Parliament. Finally reaching the ground floor I threw myself against the hard cement wall of the building and smoked as if the harder I sucked the less Monday morning I would feel.