Hey, second-person-pronoun. Yeah, second-person-pronoun. I cannot control myself when I see you. It’s only been a month but coming in every day, working on this show with you, has been incredible. Tracing its origins to the 12th century Middle English, my nickname for the name Richard stands at attention when I watch you bend over to refill your bottle at the water cooler. Mhm, that’s right: last name Clark, first name this. Recent evidence suggests that despite what my ex-girlfriend Karen says, it’s definitely enough to satisfy a lady like you. Something to think about while you chew on your pen and read Sing You Home by this New York Times bestselling novelist.
I will blow your mind, girl. I can make you feel like the royal title of Mary Tudor after she married Louis XII of France. No, you’re not into that. You’re the opposite of clean. I see how you open Yoplait yogurts with your teeth. Licking off the lid and then getting some on your nose and wiping it off with your sleeve when you think no one is looking. You minx. You’d want to me to treat you like a naughty this portmanteau for a female student at an elementary educational institution. I know you want it, too. I’ve heard things around the office. You like my “brash, kind of grating” British accent? Well, guess what: the British are gerund of the verb to come.
1972 hit single by Motown soul singer Marvin Gaye.
Are you busy tonight? Maybe we could do it by the light emitted from these cylinders of wax often found in French Baroque artist De La Tour’s religious paintings? I could stop by Crate and Barrel or this Swedish megastore that sells ready-to-assemble furniture on my way to your flat. I just want to kiss you right now in your cubicle—but the office is a fine and private place and nobody embraces there. I think. Anyway, don’t worry about sending me directions to your place, got them off this virtual mapping and geographical information program created by Keyhole Inc. in 2004. Got your address from Pam in HR. When we finally get together ... let me tell you. Any position you want, type of religious evangelist who imposed Christianity on New World Native Americans, in the style of this first domesticated animal, the Rusty Bike Pump. Anything and everything, baby.
So let’s do it hardcore tonight. I don’t want to play any games with you. I’m talking 24th letter of the modern Latin alphabet, 24th letter of the modern Latin alphabet, 24th letter of the modern Latin alphabet shit.
Had I but enough time before we went on air this evening, I would have reported both you and Pam in HR. Mark my words—this is the last time I’m dealing with your advances. Carving my name into the side of your cubicle? Emailing me photos of you eating strawberry Yoplaits? Making my name the answer to every clue in the 2012 election category last night? That one didn’t even make sense, Andrew. America was reeling.
So I’m going to say this in a way you can understand. If you ever bother me again, I will cut off your last name Clark, first name this.