Dear Stinky Grotesquerie-
Perfume, like spandex, is not a right--it is a privilege.
When I saw you drive up, I thought I caught a whiff of something dead in the air. When you opened your car door, I did whiff something; you, covered in Eu de Too Much, Too Late. I could smell your perfume through a closed glass door. And when I saw how much of you there was to overuse perfume on I realised right then that I was in trouble. Odiferous trouble.
When you opened that front door the delicate scent of One Week In A French Whorehouse Without A Working Bathroom got through that opening like a snake striking, and had about the same impact on me. I reeled, I spun, I went down for the count. That stuff was nasty, and to say that you were liberal with it is like saying that the ocean is a little moist. It was like being hit in the nose with a lilac sledgehammer. You need to stop. When I can smell you from four offices down with the A/C blowing full tilt then you've overdone it a little. It's gotten out of control, like your scent-drowned bulk.
In short, stop buying your perfume in the gallon economy size from Wal-Mart, and stop drinking it, douching with it, and using it for conditioner. I can assure you that it's only making your already manky self even more grotesque.
(the guy who for one solid week made loud gagging noises four offices away while you worked in our office.)