I like to clean offices, it's calm, nightly quiet, and I get satisfaction from making things shiny and clean. That does not make me a non-person. Last night, I was cleaning the men's bathroom, had the door propped open and on my hands and knees, was scraping goo off the floor. And you, big man in a suit, you just stepped over me as if I were a lump of crap with hair and a cloth. When I asked if you wanted the door closed, you didn't even offer a civil response—in fact, there was no response. I felt so invisible, I wondered if you'd even notice me zippering up your pants with your delicate parts nipped good and tight. Well, big man, you might want to know that I have a masters degree, that my paintings sell overseas, that I like four-leaf clovers and pressed coffee, and can quote Shakespeare if you ask.

Don't assume that a cleaner is a low class imbecile with no other means to make a living. I just happen to like making things pretty again. It's something I'm proud of, despite the people like you who assume I don't know my ass from a hole in the ground. So stepping over me... wow, that's cold. I bet you're the same freak who throws gum in the urinal and pisses on the wall, and leaves me such lovely 'presents' in the toilet. I mean, c'mon man, do I need to see what you had for lunch? Cleaners need lovin', too, ya know? What we don't need are your asinine assumptions curtained by ignorance and myopic assumptions. So you, Mister Man, you are a stuffed suit. I don't like you one bit. I'm pretty resilient to your types, but I can't remember anyone ever being as rude and crude as were your actions that yes, hurt me. Shame on you! Shame shame on you! —Cleaner with Brains