By Emily
Grade: D

Rest assured, I am SO not allowing the UR to devolve into one of those Best of Craigslist rants about ‘my stupid boss’ or ‘my annoying cubiclemate’ because duh, it's boring and depressing to read about someone’s boring, depressing office problems. But this is kind of above and beyond.

I think someone is doing a sociology experiment in the kitchen of my office. Maybe they were inspired by the article in the NYT magazine, which I am linking to in spite of the fact that it is boring and you shouldn’t bother to read it. Basically the article is about how, if you put out bagels and a cashbox to pay for them, some people will pay, some people will not, and some people will steal the box. (Quick, which kind of person are you? Quick, which kind of person am I?) The experiment in my office kitchen is not as complex. The hypothesis of it seems to be: these people will eat pretty much anything as long as it’s free and sort of resembles food. Today there was a big platter of this weird Chinese or possibly Japanese (sorry!) candy, the kind that is made out of rice flour and red beans and tinted translucent neon shades for extra appetizingness. Not to be xenophobic but the Western world does candy much better. This candy was so foul. I had three pieces and I washed them down with tea from the tea machine, which takes little vacuum-sealed packets of astronaut tea and transforms them into a liquid beverage somehow. Then I started thinking about other incredibly gross things that I have eaten lately from the ‘free’ counter in the office kitchen. These include: half a decrepit sandwich, a handful of mushy blueberries, rancid pastries . . . the list goes on and continues to be fairly mundane, but you get the point. At least I do not work in a bitch-centric magazine or public relations environment, where I hear that ladies will bring in trays of delicious homemade baked goods as a strategic move designed to make the competition fatter. But I think I’d rather have someone trying to fatten me up than someone trying to make me ill. What if they up the ante and tomorrow I walk in there and find a plate of cucumber slices with fire ant and anchovy paste topping? I know what will happen: I will eat it anyway, because I don’t have any free will anymore.