You were the three teenage employees of the nasty sandwich shop I infrequently frequent, mainly because it's just a block away and cheap, although the food is pretty terrible. A crazy bag lady was walking around your parking lot, shouting incoherently at customers as they walked in the store. You three gals were laughing at her and heckling her as if she were a standup comic, not a hapless homeless person. “Don't do crack,” you said. “Stop acting crazy.” You taunted her by gathering at the door and pointing until she came up and slapped the glass and pulled down her pants, ranting and raving. You must have felt so superior to her, but you know what, gals? You deserve to be working in a nasty-ass sandwich shop for the rest of your days.
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