New Yorker publishes poem that is actually good.
At least once a day I see some young girl walking through the lobby at Conde Nast wearing shoes that she literally can't walk in. Like, limping/hobbling can't walk in. Is this attractive? To whom?
So, there's this girl who works in the cubicle across from me and she wears the most insane outfits and eyeglasses and I want to be her friend so I asked Julia:
How can I make her my friend?
And Julia said, Why don't you go over there and introduce yourself?
I can't do that, I said. That would be weird. I was thinking of sending her an email.
That's retarded, Julia said.
Or I was thinking of writing her a note on a paper airplane and sending it over the cubicle wall and she'd be like, Oop! What's this!
Can I friend her on Facebook?
Just wait until you actually work at the New Yorker and then go over and say Hi, my name's Leigh. I work on the other side of your cubicle.