Hey! It’s that time of year again where my dad brings me to work and I wreak havoc in the office. You’ll know when I arrive because I’ll walk in with a level of confidence you haven’t seen in an office setting, maybe ever. Your boss, my dad, will introduce me to everyone and tell them that I want to be a surgeon when I grow up, just to let you know that I’m better than you’ll ever be. Even though you hate me you’ll be nice because you think it will earn you some brownie points (it won’t).

At first, I’m polite. I’ll say an enthusiastic “Hello, nice to meet you.” I’ll follow it up with a “Nice dress!” but I’ll tell you that a girl at my school has the same one. That’s when you know that I am here to fuck shit up.

Ten minutes into the day, I’ll get bored and come to your desk and yell, “What are you doing?!” You’re so surprised by this comment and try to scramble to come up with an answer but we both know that you’ve had a blank word document on your screen for over 30 minutes.

I’ll immediately go to my dad and innocently ask why you’re allowed to be on Facebook all day and I am not. I know you’re on thin ice with Robert — I mean, Dad — and I am gonna make sure he knows what you’re doing. In fact, I’ll make sure everyone hears about it because I am ten and can’t fucking whisper.

Later I’ll come by your desk like we’re all cool and start talking about my dreams of becoming a surgeon. You entertain it, not because you’re a nice person but because you’re 33 years old and it’s not acceptable to tell me to fuck off. So I’ll keep pestering you with questions, the type of questions that make you reconsider your life choices like, “Is this your dream job?” and “Why haven’t you written anything in that Word document?”

As the day starts to wind down, all you’ll want to do is eat your afternoon pastry in peace and forget what happened earlier. Mid-bite, you’ll see me from the corner of your eye with a sly smile and a napkin in my hand. You know what’s coming but it still catches you off guard when I say, “Excuse me, you have some custard on your face,” and everyone chimes in about how helpful I’m being. I’m not being helpful because there was barely anything on your face and, honestly, who the fuck points that out? I’ll tell you who: my dad. He did the same thing to you last week during a meeting when you had what looked like crumbs in your hair. Anyway, now that I said it, everyone thinks you’re a sloppy bitch.

Finally, as I leave, I give you a hug and thank you for a great time. You kindly accept the hug but deep down I know I have ruined your day.

See you next year.