Pretty woman.

Okay.  I get it now.  It took me a while, but I figured it out.  You’re the best looking woman here.  And you know it.  Congratulations.  Let’s get you a tiara.  Somebody find Bert fucking Parks.

So what?  You’re the best looking woman in this building.  That’s like saying you’re the best looking pig in the fucking sty.  Look around.  This is the ugliest group of people I’ve ever seen.  Really.  Don’t get me wrong.  It’s a great company.  But it’s a great company comprised of  some seriously unattractive people.

I’ll give you credit.  You take pride in your appearance.  It doesn’t help, but at least you try.  The rest of these people gave up long ago.  Not you.  You still wear makeup.  And it looks phenomenal.  From a distance.  Up close it’s fucking scary.  Like you’re part stucco.  It must take hours to trowel that shit on.  At least you’re dedicated.  Scary, but dedicated.

And I thought big hair went out long ago.  Holy crap.  I haven’t seen bangs that tall in years.  From a distance you look six feet tall.  Up close you’re a failing stucco wall with two foot bangs.  It’s ridiculous.  Comical even.  Beauty has its price.  Apparently, you can’t afford it.

So, I get it.  Relatively speaking, you’re hot.  I acknowledge your relative hotness.

Stop walking by my office.

About the Author: Jon Carter Jackson

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