Just overheard near my desk: “Mike, do you want to split a protein bar?” If Mike says ‘yes,’ we can never be friends.
I wish the donuts they occasionally put in the break room better helped me forget my divorce and my failed dreams.
I sometimes walk to the bathroom at work simply as an excuse to leave my desk.
I find the receptionist’s intense conversations with Rebekah about cats very distracting.
I’m not concerned with the volume of my typing and its effect on my coworkers because I believe that each and every keystroke should demonstrate a conviction in the righteousness of your text.
I spent the first half of my workday with my pants zipper unzipped.
Apparently, the new girl has either irritable bowel syndrome, very poor motor control, very poor social skills, or a combination thereof.
Chain emails are the 21st-century office equivalent of listening to nails on a chalkboard while receiving a colonoscopy.
I detest the guy who works across the hall from me, and I suspect that he detests me as well. One of my greatest disappointments in life is that I haven’t been able to accrue more respectable enemies because the guy with whom I share a mutual disdain lives alone, plays video games, and has strong opinions on the new Star Wars film trailer.