Undaunted--my judgement impaired from staring at a computer screen for the previous twelve hours--I stepped inside. I was just so eager to return to ridding my desk of its heretofore standard stacks of paper, you know. I'm pleased to report they're now in much neater piles, and on the floor. Thanks for the inspiration, Jim.
Anyway, once within I became the recipient of a barrage of insanity from a man who didn't look terribly psychotic, apart from his suit and tie, which I can transcribe for you exactly thanks to the CIA's all-hearing ears, and their website's unofficial archives:
*shouted while pressing floor-button repeatedly*
"Why doesn't pressing the button make the doors close faster? It should make the doors close faster. Don't you think it should make the doors close faster? I'm a bit high-strung. Can you tell? I think I need to relax. You think I need to relax, don't you? I don't know how to relax. I'm a bit high-strung."
And so on.
Somewhere around the Fourth Floor I decided to unlock my eyes from the digital floor-numbers ticking higher and do something. I looked straight at him and said:
"Try medication."
At this, he went dead silent and stared at me as if I were completely mad, or had suddenly grown bunny ears out of my nose. I got off at my floor, without another syllable from him.
Well, I thought it was funny.
![Laughing :lol:](./images/smilies/lolol.gif)
Any resemblance of the characters in this story to persons either living or dead is entirely intentional.