We Are Rantasaurus Rex, Hear Us Roar

Dear Pentagenarian Coworker,

You are 52, not 15.  Your short skirts, low-cut tops, and god-awful high-heeled “clicky shoes” are an abomination to all that is good and beneficial to a non-insane work day.

You know, if you would actually park yourself at your desk for a second and, I don’t know, do some actual WORK, instead of flitting around the office [while shaking your 52-year-old ass] every few minutes, I’d hate you a lot less.

Next time you feel like “venting” about how you do “so much work” and are “just worn out” let me remind you: there has never been a time, in the past year or so, that I have, albeit unwillingly, entered your office to find you actually working.  You are either surfing the Internet, sending inane forwards, or listening to e-cards that are turned up way too loud.

If you still feel “tension between us” just read the above and you’ll know why I glare at you any time you set foot near my office.

Definitely no love,

Me