One. It's still f-ing cold outside. (And no, this statement of fact does not prohibit me from complaining about the seven-levels-of-hell hot it is in July.)
Two. Speaking of hell. Elevator ride to the 11th floor. No, I don't think it's cute that you both hit different floors and then decided to get off on 10 instead, causing two unnecessary stops along the way. Apparently, you think this is adorable. Apparently, you and the two other Chatty Cathy's that insist on holding their conversation at one decibel level higher than you are "morning people". Apparently, you have not read my elevator manifesto, which includes, "Thou shalt not speak until after 10 AM." and "If thou presses a button, thou better get off on that god damn floor."
Three. Arrive at my desk to find what appears to be the equivalent of a bloody horse head under my sheets.
I'm not sure what offer I have refused, but just know that in the grand scheme of things, I am the Godfather. Sleep with one eye open, my wee lambs.
(And yes, Little Miss Sunshine is ironic.)