Michael

Michael is my work spouse/dad.  It's an odd relationship.  He's 25 years older than me.  He can mumble some nonsensical sentence and I know exactly what he meant to say.  At one point, I even knew all of his old man prescriptions.  He's a special case.  We spend a lot of time laughing which is good because we work in a very small office.  Just the two of us.  I can do anything I want in this office except fart.  That proves to be difficult sometimes.

Last weekend, his roommate went out of town and Michael told me he would probably text me a few times so I'd know he was alive.  He has a paranoia that he'll die all alone and no one will find him until after his fat weiner dog, Freida, has eaten his dead body.

During his alone time, he was having some movers come move an insanely heavy cabinet of some sort.  Of course, Michael hired the company that is owned by my psychotic neighbor.  I texted Michael on Saturday to make sure he was alive because he hadn't texted me.  He said that he was fine and that the movers had just left.  He then sent these three texts about one of the movers in rapid succession:

"He fa"
"He f"
"Fuck it. he farted."

Ha!  That's what he gets for hiring a whack job to move his stuff.