Patrick Close and Nadia Grutter

a version of this

A computer scientist [sic] takes a walk.

I am wrapped in an anonymous function.

Don't bother me, I'm coding.

The spoon in my cereal bowl rattles as I type. I can't remember the last time I had cereal.
Cheerios part from themselves in heaps of lost time.

I think about how much me being developer has to do with me having a penis. I think
about what exactly it is I am doing here. My co-worker sends me a picture of a chipmunk
riding a toad. But I am inconsolable. I send her an emoticon that's supposed to express
something like happiness in return.

I try to inhale and the plume of dust jostling above me in the sunlight streams into my
mouth.

4 hrs: 32 minutes : 12 seconds. Break time. I notify no one as I funnel out the side door.
Triumph is what ice cream tastes like in private, I tell myself.

I am outdoors. It’s lunchtime on Government Street. I surge through the pant suits and
tucked-in polo shirts, dappled with mid-day sweat stains. To the right, down Courtney
street, by the old Burger King, I smoke.

Whopper, I mouth.

Behind me, Burger King's ass-end industrial exhaust fan blasts me off my feet and onto
the street with a torrent of thirty bacon double cheese burgers, a side of fries, and a Coke.

With my nose to the road, possibly bleeding, I am not sure, I light another smoke. Can't
get faster food than that, I think.