Fleekin Floygn

Dear Hottie Who Waters the Plants at Work,

Wherefore have you condemned me to this hell, my HWWPW? Why must you be so infinitely smokinglier than everyone else in a 2 km. radius and yet only make a single brief appearance every week? You taunt, you tease, you are a walking checklist of every single physical quality I hold so dear to my heart. What explicit detail is it that I love so much? Let’s walk through it together, shall we? Is it your frame, noble and broad at 6’1”ish, trim yet sturdy in magnificent balance that makes me want to go throw up right now? Is it your auburn hair, dignified in its slightly-spiked darkness, not flaming and listless like most of its pock-marked Gingey counterparts? Does this fine shade spring from thine chestal region as well, creeping just below the single open-button on your well-sized button down? This is a question I have, beatific HWWPW. Is it your glasses, or even the mere fact that you wear them? Contacts be damned! Is it your high buttock, upon which rests your magnetic swipe card, dangling in a dance of lustful abandon? Is it your cuff watch? Your well-fitted jean? Or simply the way you stretch up to those hanging potted plants? O, to gaze upon your theoretically-shapely calves as they lift you to such heights! I adore thee so, HWWPW. Winding my way through a blue maze of cubicle dividers for the exquisite torture that is watching you tilt a watering can, you the seeming by-product of a union between lumberjack and Shopper’s Optical model. Take me away from all this industrial park madness! Let us away in your 1997 Chevy Malibu to seek great adventures, probably in some maintenance closet at your dispatch centre!

HWWPW, I love you.