What the fuck’s up with this chick from work?

There’s this semi-attractive chick who works in another department at work who, when I run into her in the office, looks at me with such terror and lack of respect accompanied by an air of intense dislike that I can pretty much safely assume that she reads this blog. Either that or I look like the guy who premeditatedly and brutally killed her parents back in 1992. And I share the same set of fingerprints with him. And the same DNA. Whutev. Semantics.

Anyway, Miss, and I’m pretty sure you’re reading this, you really don’t have anything to be afraid of/feel disgusted of about me. Just approach me and maybe nod your head in greeting. You’ll find out that I’m actually coy and meek in real life, so I’ll probably decline your approaches and overtures at first, but if you do it long enough, You’ll get me to smile. And eventually, I’ll show you a bloodied butcher’s knife and say in a grating, guttural voice: “I loved the sweet, hot wine that came from your mother’s heart–wine that I sucked from the hole I punctured in her neck with this knife. Also, your father cried like a little bitch…”

Yes. Be afraid. Be VERY afraid.

Additional comments powered by BackType