If you can't laugh about your situation, then you're in for a miserable ride.
[ The jukebox was playing something from the early nineties, it sounded suspiciously like Nirvana beneath the static of the ancient device. On the couch, like he'd forgotten all about the visit, he was napping. Boots were resting on the couch, crossed at the ankle, as the older man lounged behind them, his face beneath the chapel of a fashion magazine. The breath in his chest swelled with a snore as Cobain sang, "I just want you to know that I don't hate you anymore." The old ceiling fan squeaked in tune with his slumber. It was apparent how quiet the office really was today. ]