Dear Lovely Woman Who I See Daily In The Elevator Who Floods The Floor With Her Perfume,
Miss LWWISDITEWFTFWHP, I am sure you are so lovely, it is even in your name. You seem polite, you hold the door open when some one is sprinting for the elevator, you have a handbag I would spike my husband in the nuts for and you always look people in the eye. You seem like good egg.
Why do you insist on wearing layer upon layer of Michael Kors? Yes, Sephora calls it "warm and wearable," but I am fairly certain they did not mean the whole bottle. I love the strange little orange man too, he is a DELIGHT on Project Runway, but I think his empire is ok. You do not need to buy the lotion, the powder, the shower gel, the deodorant and the perfume and wear all at once.
I used to love that perfume. It struck me as sophisticated but still youthful, at least until Linda told me her mother wears it and now it is all Korean grandma all the time, but still you would have ruined it for me.
I can smells you whether we share the elevator or not. I can tell when you have been to the restroom. Sometimes I think I can tell if you have been to the employee cafeteria and those fuckers abuse cilantro in a serious way so you would think that would drown it out. But you cannot stop the Kors.
I am begging you to stop the Kors. Your assault on my sinuses has gone on long enough. I beg of you, please, try something new like SOAP.
You are so sweet, and really that handbag is GORGEOUS. Please do not make me bludgeon you with a hammer or spray you with faux skunk smell to get you to stop. I like to believe we above such things.
Don't test me.
Your loving not even a co-worker we just work on the same damn floor you would think that the square footage would fucking protect me,