Dear Walking Litterbox on Seven,
You scare the crap out of me. It's not like you're intimidating or mean or 7 feet tall and walk around with a semi-automatic rifle.
It's because you
And when I say you reek, I'm not just being mean. I'm being honest. Your unique "fragrance" is a violating combination of urine, a used litterbox, and sweat. Trapped with you in the elevator, I panic. I hold my breath. I pray that this will be a short ride.
I'm not the only one who has noticed this. I would imagine that your coworkers have been subjected to this for so long that they are immune to it. Some may have acquired a taste.
Most of use have not. Please, for the love of God, go on a major fucking diet, so that you can reach the parts of your body that need a little bit of deodorant/bleach/brillo/sandblasting.
P.S. - I had the unfortunate luck to stand behind you while waiting to get my mail this afternoon. Your wide wale brown corduroy pants (paired with ugly black Converse sneakers) are literally bursting at the fucking seams (and still three inches too short at the hem). I have never seen pockets explode open at the corners like that. After receiving my mail and noticing that you were still signing for packages, I ran like the building was on fire to avoid getting in the same elevator with you. Thanks for the impromptu workout.