By Amy Friedman

“Craptastic,” I said to myself, glaring at the monstrosity Mark had plopped on my desk. Damn him. Either he did fantastic work with awful designs or shoddy work with great designs. No middle ground. Sandra should have advised him better. Meanwhile, the horribleness squatted on my desk. Mark sat, eyes doleful as a basset’s, waiting for my thoughts. What did he want to make in the first place? I had no idea what had emerged from that febrile excuse for a brain. I wished I could kick him and his monstrosity out of my office. But he was my boss.