Day whatever of reporting to work as an essential employee: we’re devolving into anarchy. Uniform guidelines have fallen by the wayside. I’m at my desk in leggings and plaid Doc Martens. They have dinosaur laces. I’m making everyone look at the dinosaur laces.
I’ve resurrected my mascara and burgundy lipstick. Gals who are fortunate enough to stay at home are in PJs and bare-faced; we at the dealership have started wearing makeup, just to drive home to the techs how upside down and freakish the world has become. The veil has been shed in order to let my deathhawk fly in all its punkass glory.
We’re shuffling around in a post apocalyptic wasteland of a service center.
There are no rules, save one: Wash your hands.