WONDERFUL: Co-worker here to chat as you're shoveling food into your face before a meeting

Okay. Deep breaths. You can do this. Meeting's not until 2.

It's only 1:47.

That's tons of time to wait for the elevator, take it down 32 floors to the lobby, run across the street to the Korean barbecue place, get takeout, come back upstairs, steal someone's fork from the kitchenette, if there isn't one try a few other kitchenettes, finish typing up your presentation notes, print them, run through them a couple of times, find the meeting room, which is on some weird ghost floor no one ever uses and with which you are deeply unfamiliar, oh, and somehow slam a full box of rice, bulgogi, and kimchi into your face as well.

NICE. You lucked out. The Korean place wasn't busy. Food acquired. Back at desk. If you run this shit like an airport, it's amazing what you can cram into — okay, four minutes. It's 1:56. Tons of time. Tons of time.

First though, take four seconds to look up from your screen and just breathe. Ahh, that's nice. That's ni —

Oh, no. Oh dear god, NO.

"That looks good! Where's that from?"

"Hi — hi Darryl," you attempt to reply, but due to the multiple enormous heaping forkfuls of bulgogi you've just hoovered, it sounds more like someone's stuffed a wet t-shirt into a dying cow's mouth.

"Is that Korean place any good?"

"FOR THE LOVE OF GOD DARRYL: NOT NOW," you want to scream. But you smile and keep typing frantically, fork still in your hand, chewing, glancing at the printer to see if your stuff has come out yet, scrolling through your phone with your elbow to find the meeting room number, while also trying to find a napkin at the bottom of the takeout bag by kicking it repeatedly with your foot.

"Hey, I never asked you how your Family Day long weekend was!" Darryl exclaims.

Oh, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL GODS. He's sliding one butt cheek onto your desk. He's settling in. HE IS SETTLING IN FOR A REAL NICE CHAT.

"Didn't you guys go skiing or something? How was it?!"

"DARRYL!!!!" you silently shriek in the hell-prison of your mind. "THAT WAS ELEVEN WEEKS AGO. THAT'S HOW RARELY WE CHAT. I DON'T REMEMBER HOW IT WAS. I'M SURE IT WAS FINE."

Instead, you smile and shrug as you point to your extremely full and frantically-chewing mouth.

"Was it Collingwood?" he persists.

OKAY DARRYL. THIS WILL BE DISGUSTING BUT YOU ASKED FOR IT.

"TMEenrermtnetnblon" you offer as you leap out of your chair, grab the sheets from the printer, drop them, and hit your head on the fax machine whilst trying to pick them up. Great. Amazing. A concussion. THANKS DARRYL. THANKS SO MUCH.

"What's that?" he smiles.

With the force of Hercules you swallow a medically hazardous amount of food at once.

"TREMBLANT."

"Oh! I went there once," Darryl replies cheerfully as you just straight-up leave the room.

"It was 1988. I was a teenager, it was one of those family vacations. So I don't remember much. You know when your parents drag you to those family vacations? Anyway, I remember having a pasta in the chalet. And I had purple skis! With like pink lightning bolts on them, and my little sister, she was 11 at the time, and she —

okay cool well talk to you later."

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