Our society has convinced us that there is an absolute for cool, a sort of Plato's realm of ideal shapes for hipsters. Last night an old friend of mine reminded me that cool is as subjective as any of those other abstractions that we throw around. Cool for me probably isn't going to be cool for you. And you know what? I intend not to care anymore. If you don't like my booty dance, the way I sing in my car, or the way I live my life that's too damn bad. I do what I do because deep down inside, I really think it's cool.
It was an office, not unlike any of the other offices around the city. There were windows, visible to the lucky few cubes on the ends of the rows. Then there was Vera's cube, situated next to the row of manager's offices. Today she was lucky, someone had left their door open and precious slant of sunlight escaped, warming her back and washing out half of her computer screen. "I never realized your hair was red," Tracy dumped a large stack of paper on her desk, "The florescent lights make everything look so soupy." "What is that?" she pointed at the stack of paper. Tracy only offered compliments when he wanted a favor. "I need this entered," he smiled, a dimple appearing in his cheek. "You have a secretary," Vera waved a freckled hand to her left, "Ask him." "He's sick," Tracy gave her puppy-dog eyes, batting his long dark eyelashes. Vera sighed and fought back a smile. Tracy was such a s...