I came in to work today to find the girl in the mailroom crying. This is what happened (and I’m giving you the abridged version because I’m sick and feeling awfully sorry for myself right now).

The Israeli girl marched into the mailroom yesterday with a little silk bag containing a pair of her shoes and said, “The Publisher’s Wife told me to have you take these to get fixed.”

After hosting some moral dilemma in her mind (“This is not in my job description. Do it on your own time, bitch”), the mailroom girl decided to write the Israeli Girl an email telling her exactly that: “I may be a lowly slave, but I don’t do your personal errands.”

The Israeli Girl wrote back and said that she had broken the heel on the job, so she wants them fixed.

The mailroom girl responded that she didn’t care where she broke it nor does she need an explanation—this just isn’t part of her job.

The Israeli Girl, instead of backing down and feeling humbled for making such an asinine request, complained about the mailroom girl to the Publisher’s Wife.

This morning the Publisher’s Wife demanded that the mailroom girl apologize to the Israeli Girl.

When I found the mailroom girl crying, she said she’d rather quit than apologize.

I used to like the Israeli Girl. Now I don’t. If anyone needs a mailroom girl, email me and I’ll tell her to send her resume. Going to sleep. I’ll be back on Monday with, I hope, some Manwhore Superbowl Stories.