Each day for many, many days, I have come to my cubicle and been greeted by Dwight Schrute, cheerfully bobbling his head. It was a great way to start the work day and inspired me to never cede control of the motherland.
But now Dwight is beheaded.
It was a terrible scene: a ferociously cute three year old came to my cubicle looking for something to play with. Hypnotized by her hyper-cuteness, I allowed her to hold Dwight and watch his head bobble. I turned around to put away a file but turned back quickly at the sound of ceramic slipping from toddler hands. I dove back to my desk, hoping to absorb the impact of his fall with my body. But I was too late.
Maybe I can revive him with some super glue. What do you think?
