Resignation from the Doormat Dimension
The diner smelled sorrow so intense it might curdle milk, like a pancake murder scene with syrup and burnt toast. If she sneezed, Clara sprawled in her go-to booth—the one with a seat so ripped—flashed her panties. Her notepad was open, her pen hovering like it was about to turn on her to the FBI, but after a Target run the page seemed thinner than her bank account. Outside, the neon sign sputtered as though the mothership were drunk-dialing. Clara thought, I'm done, seeing her reflection in the greasy window. Not with her librarian job, where she performed Book Babysitter for minimum pay, not with the faucet in her apartment spitting like an angry llama, but with something far more delicious: the Human Footwipe. She was ready to light the fuse and Yeet that sad-sack variation of herself into a black hole.
