My work BFF and I often share a quick gossip around the water cooler about my flabby dad, during which my BFF asks me pointed questions about my dad’s finances and regales me with hilarious tales of her previous life as a grifter.

When we take our simultaneous cigarette breaks, my work BFF and I gab freely about my dad’s muscular mission, in which she also has a personal stake.

My work BFF patiently listens to my ramblings about my dad as I send faxes.

I hardly have time to hit happy hour with my work BFF these days because my dad prefers I spend my free time with him at the hospital, where he is recovering from the latest in his series of devastating injuries at the hands of faulty gym equipment.

My work BFF told me my dad was a gullible buffoon who’d gotten what had been coming to him.

My work BFF was visibly dismayed and immediately left the picnic to tend to my dad’s wounds.

My work BFF wasn’t at the corporate picnic, because it took place outside the office, where my work BFF lives and sleeps.

I could not attend the corporate picnic because my dad requested that I spend that time reading his defective StairMaster’s manual, titled “Instructshorns For Motor Hurt Stair,” to him in its entirety. I was a little suspicious that the instructions were in pencil in what looked to be his handwriting.

My cunning work BFF showed up to the office with a brand-new, 15-inch MacBook Pro with Touch Bar and Touch ID, which she said she suckered “some old dumb-shit dad” into practically buying for her.

My work BFF complained about how all of her holiday bonus was going to have to go to her new husband’s mounting medical bills.

My work BFF spit dozens of pages of printed reports from her warm belly. Classic her.

I’ll never know. I had to call in sick to work that day after my dad described to me in great detail how much the presence of his only daughter would be the only thing that would give him the strength to recover from smushing his legs into pulp from the femur down. I was a little suspicious when I saw packaging for “High Quality Recumbent Bike” and “High Quality Recumbent Bike Sabotage Kit” next to each other in his recycling bin.

My savvy work BFF spent the entirety of the trip in the desert mesas, chiseling away. On the flight back, she had to check two oversize bags, which she told me were full of rocks for “the biggest chump in town.”

My work BFF took me out to a traditional Albuquerque dinner, where she told me that she very much loved her husband—my dad—but he was bankrupting the whole family with his inadvisable purchases in the name of fitness, and we might need a game plan going forward.

My work BFF did not come to Albuquerque because my work BFF had some important documents to scan with her one long laser eye back at the office.

My work BFF was kind of weirded out because my dad begged me to let him tag along on the trip, warning he might “get into another exercise accident” otherwise. So we actually didn’t hang out much in Albuquerque.

My work BFF conned the heir to a local wasp fortune out of millions of wasps earlier this month, but she says “that’s in the past now.”

My work BFF’s/new stepmom’s connections to the wasp commerce industry are tenuous at best.

My work BFF can print any photo of a wasp I ask her to, or even just a piece of paper that tells me her ink levels.

As far as I know, my work BFF has no connection to wasps, but I’ve had to spend so much time with my dad recently that I barely see her anymore and I’m starting to feel like the term “BFF” may no longer describe our relationship very well.