Personal Narrative-I Am Racist

The grey sleet drizzled onto my already damp hair as I stepped into the clinical-like office building where my day would be wasted. As I walked into the horrid building, an animated receptionist greeted me with fake pearly white teeth, hardened ice blue eyes and bleached blond hair, repeating the same line every morning, “Good morning Mr Lubin”. I felt my eyes roll in my head as I pressed the small button, making an almighty ‘beep’, summoning stained grey steel door’s to take me to where I would waste away. My desk was a mix of crumbled paper, unopened mail and old bitter coffee; surrounding the holy grail of my life, my faded pastel blue typewriter. The typewriter had cost me two weeks of pay cheques but it was worth every pound poured into