Sexism at the office.

I know you see me. You walk in a couple times a week to talk to Tamara; we share an office, you can't possibly have missed that. The least you could do is acknowledge my presence in the room when you are here. I don't need to be your best friend. But come on. You know I'm here.
The way you ignore my side of the office would under other circumstances perhaps be admirable. You can sit here talking for half an hour, diligently averting your eyes to every side of the room except my corner. My increasingly-less-enthusiastic smiles and attempts to make eye-contact with you in an effort to make our now all-too-late introduction less awkward are expertly avoided. At this point I feel it would be impolite for me to walk up to you and shake your hand - I'm afraid it would only point out your own rudeness.
This will probably go on until October when I leave and we will have never met each other, though I know your name and that the cute boy in your department doesn't really like you that way and that your job stresses you out more often than you enjoy it and that you are thinking of taking night-classes. I was, after all, in the room while you exchanged gossip and stories with my office-mate.
The men at least came by to say hello when I started working here. Sure, they just wanted to meet the new blonde intern. But at least they acknowledge my presence. They invite me to join them for lunch and even stop in during the afternoon lull to chat about cars and buying houses. They aren't just friendly, they call me "lieve schat" and "sweety". But you, you women, you don't just pretend I don't exist - you know I'm here. You see me and have said so much more with your avoiding eyes than any man could with a passing pinch in the dark hallway.