Vanquished. Again.

How many times is this going to happen, just in the course of one day? How many times can you suffer defeat at the hands of your enemy? Even if that enemy is your coworker, how can you really stomach it happening over and over?

It's such a small thing, really. Who will empty the trash doesn't seem like something that could cause so much strife, but you're not going to do, and he's not going to do it, and it's just not going to get done. You keep looking up over your desk to see if it's going to get to him, but really, he doesn't even seem to notice. Maybe he doesn't have a sense of smell. Does he smoke? He never takes smoke breaks. He doesn't smoke. So how could he let those enchiladas sit there for over a week, filling your small office with that gradually increasing odor? Maybe he just has a stomach of steel, maybe his will is that much more than yours, but whatever the case, you just couldn't take it any more.

Carrying the reeking bin at arms length, you walked through the cubicle farm, trying to make it to the break room with out losing your lunch, but they were waiting for you, weren't they? If you're going that way, would you mind? Of course you don't, and they all started emptying their bins into yours. The cascade of aromas was overwhelming, and it occurred to you that no one in this office ever seemed to empty their bins, not a single one of them.