Because comfort counts, right?

I have a coworker named Prue. I hate Prue. Prue takes to my desk like it’s her personal kitchen, leaving me a mess of Hurricane Katrina-like proportions that I have to clean up every time her shift finally and mercifully ends. Since I’m forced to share my desk with her due to the cramped conditions of our section, I have to endure a daily ritual of fumigating the thing so I can use it again after she leaves.

Today was no different, so I started checking the drawers for something I could use to clean up the coffee stains, grease spots, and other strange substances I’d prefer would remain unidentified. I found some nice pads in my right drawer and started scrubbing away. They seemed to do the job pretty well, and I thought maybe, for once, Prue had actually been considerate enough to leave some cleaning supplies behind, a humble admission to what a raging slob she was.

“Linc, what are you doing?” It was Leeza, a motormouth but a friendly coworker of mine.

“Just cleaning this crap up as usual.”

“But why are you using that??”

“Hey, it works good, and it was in the drawer, so why not?”

“Linc… that’s a tampon.”

I stopped scrubbing.

“What now?” I said weakly.

“It’s a tampon,” she repeated, then broke out in uncontrollable laughter.

My face darkened several shades of red as I quickly threw the “cleaning pad” away in disgust.

I hate Prue.