That smell.

You’ve been here.  I can tell.  My calendar’s open, my cup’s been moved, and your stench is still polluting my air.  Seriously.  It’s like working the perfume counter at K-Mart.  It’s harsh.  You smell like an Iraqi cab driver and you’re nosy.  Stay the fuck out of my office.

We have e-mail, voice-mail, and inter-office mail.  We have in-boxes, out-boxes, instant messaging, and eighteen fucking sizes of Post-it notes.  There is no need for personal interaction.  None.  You need something?  Call me.  E-mail me.  Send a fucking smoke signal.  I don’t care, just stay out my fucking office.

It will wait.  Whatever crisis you’re experiencing, whatever question you have, it will wait until I return from the bathroom.  It will.  I work here.  We have the same job.  I know what we do.  It’s not that important.  It will wait.  If I’m not here, I will return.  Stay out of my office.  I will not alert you when I need to shit.  I will not pencil in my bodily functions.

Stay the fuck out of my office.

Stink it up again and I’ll pencil in an ass whooping.  Nosy heifer.

About the Author: Jon Carter Jackson

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