Dear people who work on my stuff when I’m working on other stuff: Please don’t mess up my stuff. If you don’t know how to do it, skip it. Don’t send my stuff off to another department so that it comes back to me with a note that says, “This isn’t our stuff. Why are you so stupid?”
Dear funny little man who seems to be everywhere I am at any given moment: By funny, I mean odd. By little, I mean you’re about an inch taller than me. With women, it’s called petite. With men, it’s called ‘you’re damn near a midget.’ Stop talking to me. Stop smiling at me. I’ve been off the penis for almost twenty years. I have no intention of starting again, especially not with yours. Because I bet you are proportional. Think about it.
Dear monsterish spider on MoC’s deck: Where did you go? Stop hiding. It’s not funny anymore.
A little emailing with Betty, the best desk partner ever, after complaining about everyone messing up my stuff:
Betty: Seems your attitude got adjusted.
Me: I got a flu shot that made me immune. Then I had a blackened chicken salad that made me invincible.
A little texting with Leslie, to balance out my day:
Me: There was a big ass spider on mom’s deck. It disappeared.
Leslie: It’s creating a web to immobilize you.
Me: I hate you …
Me: Wait. Help me. Helpme. Helmmmffff
Leslie: Remember the movie The Fly … you’re him at the end, trapped in the web and in his tiny little fly voice “help me, help me”
Me: Seriously, help me.
Leslie: The movie left you hanging. Literally. Poor little fucker!
Years ago, I had two dugouts. If you know what that is, awesome, you’ll understand the story. If not, check this link and come back. Ready? Both dugouts are made of wood and one has a really neat carving of a dragon on it. I let Leslie borrow the dragon dugout in 1992 and she refused to give it back. Her argument? “You don’t need two.” We’ve been having this argument for nineteen years. I shit you not. And we’ve had the argument for 15 years longer than either one of us had any use for the dugout itself. It’s the principle of it!
Leslie wrenched her back last week. I had two Vicodin left from my dental debacle several months ago. Because I’m nice and she was in pain, I gave them to her. But Leslie is Leslie and she torments me. She made a very rude (but funny) short joke – although it couldn’t have been that funny or I’d remember it to tell you. Anyway, I told her I wanted the Vicodin back.
“I’ll give you one. You don’t need two.”
Then I killed her*.
RIP Leslie. It was fun while it lasted, asshole.
*Dear FBI: So not kidding!