Someone at my job is fuckin' with us.
There's an old comic routine from the nineties, I think by Paula Poundstone but don't quote me on that, about the guys who look over airplanes every night. She claimed that the engineers would move the seats forward a quarter of an inch every night just to screw with their passengers' heads - that's why a flight BACK from somewhere is usually more uncomfortable then the flight THERE.
Okay, now take that routine and apply it to a (more or less) standard office environment. Three computers to a row in this particular section, back to back, with space in between for, you know, us.
Now, I realize that my job entails sitting on my ass in front of a TV and a computer and I realize that I don't get anywhere near as much exercise as I should, but lately, things have been kinda...cosy. Ok, like cramped-cosy. Like, sliding behind your deskmates with the backs of their heads uncomfortably close to your crotch, cosy.
So either we're dangerously obese (heh. no.) or someone's trying to hit us with a not so subtle hint.
I feel inexplicably dirty, like a telemarketer.