who do i sue if i get murdered on the job?

i once (or maybe more than once) wrote a diddy about how one of these days my job is gonna get me killed.

i also have an incredibly wild imagination. but i’m as equally trusting of everyone (hello, southerner) as i am completely aware of my surroundings (hello, big city dweller)

today i climbed a series of spiral, almost impassable staircases, followed by a zilllion-story ride up a century-year-old elevator shaft, and some time spent navigating my way across scaling a rooftop.

with a newfangled, seemingly out of sorts, “custodian.”

[i will call him a custodian because i actually have no idea who he was or what he does. i just know he had a bunch of keys and wore a prison-inspired janitor-type jumpsuit. and some guy named max, who i also do not know, put me in his company on a journey to climb to the top of a clock tower that no one ever goes up to, but yet one that an army of people were breathing down my neck to investigate.]

all for this:

sure, let’s send the white chick in the skinny jeans and see-thru top up to the bell tower. alone. with the custodian. and no weapons.

[and when i say see-thru, let me bring it home by explaining that you can see my bra and everything in between my collar bones and hip bones way better than if i’d voluntarily partaken in an impromtu wet t-shirt contest sponsored by a hoard of derelicts in the bowels of the special section of myrtle beach. thank you, j.crew, for not putting a disclaimer on your garments. and thank you, marcy, for not looking at yourself in the mirror before you raced out the door.]

the custodian was relatively normal. by what standards, i’m not sure. he hummed an unrecognizable tune the entire 30 minutes we spent together (alone. in the bell tower. with no weapons. and a see-thru top.), but he also rocked a demeanor that suggested he was tripping his face off on a variety of hallucinogens while serving out his first week in a parole-appointed occupation.

did i mention that no one goes up here? ever?

NO ONE. EVER.

if he stumbled into a psychopathic mindset, and did the unthinkable, NO ONE WOULD EVER KNOW.

[but you can bet your sweet ass that keith morrison would host an applaud-worthy segment about me on dateline. with cool sound effects and an array of photos from my youth, carefully wound together in a montage portraying the life and mysterious disappearance of a brown-eyed girl from a good family. and then i’d be famous.]

my mom gave me mace once.

it’s sitting on my dresser.

i’m doing this wrong.