As you know, I’m entering the third week of my internship at this office and so far things have been great—everyone has been polite and my boss isn’t as big a dick as I originally thought. If I had to complain about one thing though, I guess it would be you.
When I first met you, you seemed like a normal guy; you had no detectable body odor, you were wearing pants, and you had no visible scars on your face that would indicate that you’re part of a crime syndicate, all things I look for when meeting new people. However, after three weeks here, I now know that you may very well be the child of Satan.
I understand that it’s hard to make friends; you need to find people who enjoy the same things you do and then cultivate that relationship until it turns into mutual respect. But you have chosen to bypass that system completely by just showing up at my cubicle at random intervals throughout the day and spewing whatever garbage comes to your mind. I don’t care about the weather and I don’t want to know what you did this weekend, although I’m sure that weeding your garden must have been an awe-inspiring experience.
I thought things were at the lowest point, but then I discovered that you had added me as a friend on Facebook. What I’m truly confused about is why you think I care about these mundane events, when nobody else in the office seems to. I personally blame the fact that I chose to answer your seemingly innocent question in the cafeteria one day instead of awkwardly shuffling in place and clearing my throat like the other people. Little did I know that “Cold enough for you?” would soon turn into, “Do you want to see pictures of my cat doing something that only I find entertaining?”
Every time I want to get up and pour myself some coffee from the kitchen, I need to plan my route with ninja-like efficiency to avoid any face to face contact with you. Thankfully I have plenty of experience from playing the Metal Gear Solid saga and I know that the best way to distract you is by knocking on a neighbouring cubicle and then running in the opposite direction when you approach. Still, somehow you manage to corner me in the most awkward rooms in the office at the most inappropriate times. Here’s a tip for you: if I have anything in my hand that is either edible or can expel urine, it is probably not the greatest time for a conversation.
Now I must admit that I may be guilty of provoking you from time to time. I do have a tendency to ask co-workers “how’s it going” when I pass them in the halls. Normally when I ask this kind of question I’m looking for the simple response “good” or occasionally “great,” but the last thing that concerns me is how you are actually doing.
If you do think that it’s appropriate to summarize the latest chapter of your life, I at least ask that you know when to walk away. After all, I do need to do work in order to put food in my stomach and beer in my belly, so when your story reaches the finish I would appreciate it if you walked away instead of finding other random topics to talk about for 20 minutes.
I thought things were at the lowest point, but then I discovered that you had added me as a friend on Facebook. I’m still a nice guy deep down, so I decided to accept your request to give you constant access to my personal life and allow you to always be in contact with me. Fantastic. The real injustice is that I have the ability to look through your pictures too, but your life is so mundane that Wonderbread and Earl Gray tea probably laugh at you on a regular basis.
So here I am, huddled quietly in my cubicle with headphones on and no music playing (this technique seems to keep you away) while filling out spreadsheets. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel—I only have nine weeks left of this and if I stay diligent I think I can avoid you at an 83% success rate. If you do ever come across this article, here is a word of advice: get a dog. They’re active, they’re adorable, and they don’t talk back. In the meantime, I have to take my shoes off and prepare to make the sprint for coffee.