She Trapped Me In My Office And Exposed Herself
She Trapped Me In My Office And Exposed Herself
A menty-b with a side of Post-it Notes
“Knock, kno-ock!”
I have an actual door that you can literally knock knock on, but no, Shelley has to sing it because Shelley is the twattiest.
“Am I interrupting?”
I was just dreaming up different ways to murder you.
“Not at all! What’s up?”
Other than your hard-on for meddling in my business.
“I just had an idea about something that isn’t even remotely my business but entirely yours. I have no prior knowledge or training and what I’m about to tell you is useless bullcrap.”
I’m paraphrasing.
Shelley is my work nemesis. She is the reason I’ve requested a change of office.
“I don’t feel safe,” I told my boss. “Someone [Shelley] could corner me and I would have no way to escape.”
I’ve taken to locking myself in, but today I forgot.
“Mind if I sit?”
I’d rather stuff my vagina with mosquitoes.
“I’ll sit.”
Then she does something that is beyond normal even for Shelley.
She strips naked.
From the ankles down.
“My dogs are barking,” she says, rubbing her feet. I fight the urge to toss my cookies across my desk and directly into her mouth-breathing pie hole.
“Shelley — you can’t — put those — ” I can’t finish my sentence, every bit of effort is going into me not spewing.
She touches her naked feet. She manhandles them in my office and I cannot escape.
If I jump out this 18-storey window will I suffer less than enduring another minute with Shelley?
I fight to compose myself.
“Shelley. You need to put your feet away. Please.”
[Sidebar: I hate feet. I hate feet so much that my husband has to cut my own son’s gnarly toenails because I can’t get past their tiny, clammy exterior, the slight cross-over of the middle toes, the hard tufts of lint balled between each digit.]
I’m retching as I type.
Shelley doesn’t hear me, she’s droning on about her idiot brain making her idiot mouth say idiot words.
“Shelley — ”
She won’t stop fucking talking.
“Shelley!”
Something about checking the entire supply across the entire organization just to be sure.
“Shelley!”
Her name has lost all meaning. Shelley Shelley Shelley Shelley I don’t even recognize it anymore. Is it even a name?
Shelley Shelley Shelley.
What kind of stupid name is Shelley anyway? Ooh look at me, I found me lucky shell, it’s so….shell-y.
Has she shape-shifted into a leprechaun? Am I stroking out?
I add pepper spray to my Amazon cart while she proceeds to non-consensually ear-, nose-, and eye-fuck me.
That better be a checkbox on our workplace violence report form.
“ — so maybe we can come in on a Saturday when no one is using them and we can bring them all to your office and look at them together ooh I can bring my homemade beer and you could bring a gluten-free treat and — ”
I’d rather drink my own urine and die from piss poisoning.
I unclasp my 10-year service award pin from my lanyard and tape it to my pen.
I could shiv her.
Suddenly she stops talking.
Her eyes glaze over.
Oh-ma-gerd, can she read my thoughts?
What am I thinking right now, Shelley?
Suck a dick.
Her pupils dilate.
My fingers furl tighter around the shiv.
Knock knock motherfucker.
“Oh no, oh no, I’m doing it again aren’t I?” she asks the framed photo of our company mission statement behind my head.
Blah blah blah every person has value blah blah blah
I don’t even know what she’s referring to but it’s a yes from me.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry. Oh my god.”
Shelley’s face turns as gray as our company’s criteria for workplace violence and harassment. She throws her shoes back on over her barf bases and runs out of my office.
I have no idea what just transpired but I’m relieved that her and her ralph-inducing leg stands are gone.
Four hours later there’s still no sign of Shelley. As far as I can tell she hasn’t left her office.
Every day, Shelley arrives with four different obnoxiously super-sized vessels filled with liquids and she’s prone to bladder infections.
I’m concerned for her bladder.
It can’t shiv its way out of this.
Reluctantly, I knock on her door.
“Knock kno-ock.”
JK, I would never say that.
I knock, like a normal fucking human with a fist.
The door creaks open.
Shelley is folded over her chair like a ragdoll. Surrounded by a mountain of colorful Post-it Notes.
What the deuce?
I consider taking her pulse but I’ve seen enough movies to determine that Shelley is either dead and about to turn into a zombie or that Shelley is already a zombie.
Slowly, she begins to turn. Her ergonomic chair emits a fart-like sound. It would have been a funny moment if I wasn’t shitting myself.
Her face is a grid of black mascara stripes. She looks like a zebra centaur.
It’s a real thing. Google it if you don’t believe me.
She sniffles.
Has her face been leaking for the past four hours?
As if in a trance, she gathers up Post-it Note Mount Everest and proceeds to read each one to the wall.
“I’m”
Sniff.
“Sorry”
Hiccup.
“I”
“Always”
Chair fart sound.
“Do”
“I”
“Wait, wrong one”
“This”
[Sidebar: I’ll spare you the agony of reading this. She was having a mental breakdown. It was the Friday before a long weekend and all I wanted to do was get into my 1995 Toyota Corolla, roll down the windows and blast the Dixie Chicks.
Shut up, they were still called that back then.
Instead, I was trapped in a corporate death cell with Shelley-psycho-Magee.]
“I don’t mean to interrupt whatever this is, Shelley, but how long is this going to take?”
We haven’t even got to the blue, green, yellow, or pink ones yet.
I need to take control of this situation.
If I leave now I can still make Happy Hour at Geraldine’s.
I confirm that she overstepped.
She adds fresh stripes to her face. Is there no limit to her mascara?
I tell her I’ll forgive her if she promises to never expose herself in my office again.
With the back of her hand, she smudges the black. I consider snapping a photo just for funsies.
I mumble something about how I hope she has a great weekend and Ace Ventura the fuck out of there.
I genuinely hope she’s ok.
But I’ll sharpen my service award pin shiv for Tuesday, just in case.
And burn every Post-it Note so she can have her next Menty-B without pulling me into some voodoo kumbaya circle jerk shit.
This story originally appeared in Doctor Funny
Wahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh why does her name have to be Shelley! She IS the tawtiest! And she has the extra E in her name! I also HATE feet! I can't believe you were violated in such a way.
You had me at: “I’d rather stuff my vagina with mosquitoes.”