My co-workers are boring, insipid people and I’d rather slap myself in the face repeatedly than spend more than the contractually obligated eight hours with them. So, to me, work parties are salt in an already painfully infected wound. The only thing I look forward to at these things are the desserts, which makes it incredibly aggravating when people hog more than their fair share. That’s where you come in. You, a large, unkempt man, clearly never grasped the concept of a clothing iron. At first, I paid you no mind because I’ve had bad laundry days, too. That changed when you grabbed three cookies from the dessert tray. The last three cookies. Those could’ve gone to three people—myself included! As revenge, I passive-aggressively commented on whether the wrinkles on your shirt were a design choice. Hopefully, it made you a little less self-assured. Next time, don’t fuck with my cookies!
I Saw You is an anonymous “man on the street” column. Email your rants and raves about co-workers or any badly behaving citizens to
iS*****@me*******.com
, or send to 380 S. First St, San Jose, 95113. Submissions should stick to about 100 words.
