I really don't have any more time for these lame jokes, Mike.
Mike! I'm not doing this with you right now. Seriously. I've got a lot of work to do and every time you come over here--
Orange you glad you didn't open the door?!
I didn't. I didn't open the door because there are no doors anywhere near the two of us. We both work in the same open space. And I do use the term "work" loosely in this case, Mike.
Really? Another one? You're an adult human male who still believes that knock knock jokes can be funny? I didn't know people like you existed in the real world.
See, you're not even waiting for me to work my way into the joke. There's a proper etiquette--a sort of back-and-forth, call-and-response type of thing--that you're entirely glossing over here.
Harry up and open the door!!
Hmm. I get it. Did you steal these from Very Literal Knock Knock Jokes: A Guidebook to Disrupting the World Around You In the Most Childishly Irritating Way Possible? Seriously, Mike, for all that is righteous and holy, just go back to your area. If you want to mumble more of these abysmal non-punchlines under your breath, that's fine. But--
...I will physically harm you, Mike! Do you understand me??
Barbed wire! All over your face, Mike! If you don't stop with these awful--
Felix my ice cream again, I'm gonna kill him!
Damn it. That was actually pretty funny. Good on you, Mike. Good on you.
Happy Hump Day,
Hi. Hello. How are you? What's up? Can I help you with something? All good? Hello again. I mean...still. A continuous hello to you, sir.
You're still here. Why are you still here? Walk away. You can end all this. Just walk away.
WHY ARE YOU ALWAYS STANDING SO CLOSE TO ME?
This is a combination of the internal monologue and outward conversation I've had with you for the last couple of weeks. Some of it surely sounds familiar (if a bit repetitive at this point), but I feel like these things have to be said. Not because I love the small talk, mind you, but because nothing makes the fact that your chin is touching my shoulder for about 3 hours each day more awkward than complete silence.
So I fill in the gaps. The conversational gaps, anyway. Not the physical gaps. Because there aren't any to fill. Because the front of your shirt is apparently stitched to the back of mine.
I know I smell nice. My naturally intoxicating musk is no doubt a cause of internal celebration for you, seeing as most things you smell around here are--to understate this in the nicest way--displeasing. And I realize everything I do is so extraordinarily educational and entertaining ("extra edu-tainment" you might call it) that you don't want to risk walking away for a moment only to find out later that you missed some monumental musing of mine that would have changed your life's path forever.
But you still can't hover over me like you're the puppeteer and I'm the marionette. (I know hand puppet would have been a more apt analogy here, but I couldn't stand the imagery.) Besides, you can't be the puppeteer if you know much less than the puppet! (Boy this analogy really got away from me. Please stick around despite this series of digressions. Not that you wouldn't anyways, seeing as how you're probably hovering over me as I write this!)
Let this letter serve as the nicest possible way for me to ask you to keep your distance. Step off my heels. Steer clear of my personal space. Stay out of my bubble. Just...go away.
Or else my bubble might...my intimate zone isn't for...something something personal boundaries pun. I CAN'T FOCUS ON ANALOGIES WITH YOUR BREATH ON THE BACK OF MY NECK!