ERROL PARKER | Editor-at-large | Contact
It’s late November and Harry Tollman isn’t as piss fit as he needs to be for this time of year – and a man of his experience in the advertising sales industry.
Slumped at his desk like a frumpy old bean bag, Tollman says he doesn’t know if he has it in him anymore.
“I’m putting on a brave face right now,” he confided in our reporter from his secret vaping spot out the back of his office.
“I’m doing my best to pretend I don’t feel like an old arthritic lab who just wants to spend the rest of the day in his bed,” he said.
“I’m trying to act like I’m the Post Malone type of Labrador, who is just a big dopey guy who bounces around like life’s a dream.”
“Maybe life is a dream. I don’t fucking know anymore.”
“I should have gone home after dinner. There was approximately 1-2% common sense used in that pissed decision to go all-in on another round and a bag after that stupid industry function last night.”
Swallowing like he was holding the 2 am pie down, a single solitary tear or bead of sweat from his clammy brow rolled down his face.
“I think I have to just stick to beers and none of the rum and coke kinda shit if I’m gonna get through the next six weeks.”
“Or maybe I should just drink more water.”
“Fuck, I’ve been out here for 20 minutes, I’ve gotta go back in,” he said walking off.
