I’m going to call you Iowa, but you know who you are. What you don’t know is how to grow up. I thought I might unearth some hint of humanity in you if I sat with you for morning coffees in the office kitchen, or invited you to shoot pool after work, or kept my mouth shut about your weakass George Michael facial hair. I didn’t. Then you went and ruined my going-away party with the old hot-sauce-in-the-Jell-O-shot shtick, and I realized you were irredeemably 14 years old. I tried to laugh off the burning, but on the on the inside—my literal insides—I thought I was going to have to go to the hospital. So here’s some news, Iowa: (1) Fuck you; (2) Yeah, that is a drinking problem; and (3) Good luck finding anyone else at work who is as good at pretending to like you as I was.