The Pent Umbrage of the Tempy, Part XXIX

You want to discuss something as simple as "comfort." That's as far as you want to go.

You were down there on the shop floor, chomping your cigar, sweating, giving orders and obeying orders of harsh deadlines in your head all the time, and because it didn't matter if you were happy or not, you were happy.

Everything everyone did down there was public, including farting and the epidemic diarrhea cuzzed by too much the night before, as the public inflicted with privates charged all too abruptly to the restroom, and it was understood. It was an odd overlap of public and private, ensured by the importance of much more interesting things going on in the work, on the shop floor.

Now you have this office, this windowless office, and virtual privacy in abundance. You can't enjoy it at all unless you huddle down against the air vent, to smoke, illicitly, your cigar. Which you never chomp down on any more.