[It takes him a few seconds to connect the dots back to what Harry was saying, and he nods vigorously. He knows he's teetering on the edge of the pit again, so he tries to keep his momentum going, talking quickly before he doesn't feel like talking at all.]
It's possible to bring your own lunch in, probably, but nobody ever does. Bunch of bachelors. You could find stuff in the dumpster that was healthier for your body than the kebab stand. You did, couple times. Fuck—ing disgusting, but better. Not worse, at least. Sometimes McLaine buys a big can of that rancid processed meat shit and fries it in the office. Whole. The fucking worst.
[Never in a thousand years would Jean ever think about being homesick for his horrible job in his horrible city, but he is. Missing Judit is one thing, but he's starting to miss the rest of it—the bad parts, the worse parts, from his nightmarish colleagues to the slow poison of his lifestyle. Harry has to remember, or else Jamrock and the 41st may as well be gone.]
There isn't any fucking privacy in that goddamn shithole, besides Pryce's office and the closet they put Jules in. Everything carries. You can hear someone take a piss in the washroom from the front door. Everybody throws shit at everybody else.
no subject
[It takes him a few seconds to connect the dots back to what Harry was saying, and he nods vigorously. He knows he's teetering on the edge of the pit again, so he tries to keep his momentum going, talking quickly before he doesn't feel like talking at all.]
It's possible to bring your own lunch in, probably, but nobody ever does. Bunch of bachelors. You could find stuff in the dumpster that was healthier for your body than the kebab stand. You did, couple times. Fuck—ing disgusting, but better. Not worse, at least. Sometimes McLaine buys a big can of that rancid processed meat shit and fries it in the office. Whole. The fucking worst.
[Never in a thousand years would Jean ever think about being homesick for his horrible job in his horrible city, but he is. Missing Judit is one thing, but he's starting to miss the rest of it—the bad parts, the worse parts, from his nightmarish colleagues to the slow poison of his lifestyle. Harry has to remember, or else Jamrock and the 41st may as well be gone.]
There isn't any fucking privacy in that goddamn shithole, besides Pryce's office and the closet they put Jules in. Everything carries. You can hear someone take a piss in the washroom from the front door. Everybody throws shit at everybody else.