What exactly do you think you're doing? Is there a reason you're always sneaking around my desk? Lost something? Your dignity perhaps?
You are scoring a 9 on my I-think-you-might-be-a-serial-killer-o-meter.
Your presence annoys me more than that Crazy Homeless Metro Violin Lady. And that's saying something since I want to beat that woman about her face and head with her instrument of torment.
I see you out of the corner of my eye, loitering around like a drug dealer, moving at a pace that would make my grandmother look like Usain Bolt, waiting for me to notice your pathetic creeptasticness. I'm not looking up dude.
I know you're French and all, so you think you have this potent Loverboy-Charm that I will find irresistible if I just look into your eyes... but I'm afraid your awkward, I'm-trying-to-hide-an-erection-saunter is just not doin' it for me.
You're about as attractive to me as this guy. (PS: who else is hoping he accidentally shoots his nuts off?)
So, kindly, knock it off, before I am forced to give you a look that will make you insecure for the rest of your distressingly-lame, stalky, life.
No, I will not tell you what band I'm listening to to avoid talking to you. No, no coffee. I'll be too tempted to scald your crotch.
And while you're at it, stop giving me that weird smile. Yeah. That one. Like there's some kind of secret we share. NEWSFLASH: I don't even know your NAME.
We have no secrets. Well, except for your name. The only thing we share is an office space and I'm already regretting that.
Now go walk it off somewhere else.