Esteemed Former Collegue, Esq.:

Out of all my colleagues, you are definitely the only one who wanted to smoke peanut shells for fun on a weekday. I could accept that. We are all somewhat artistic, jobless, and in need of haircuts. I suppose huffing glue and robo tripping are logical next steps.

However; I was disturbed when, after inbibing another psychotropic cocktail, you decided to inform me that I have a penis infatuation.

It is with deep regret that I write to inform you that your most recent epiphany is just one of many of your self-inflated delusions fueled by malnutrition, PBR and paint fumes.

It’s a shame that you won’t be joining us for lectures at the library anymore. I’ve enjoyed your company. You are a sensitive and introverted queer bumbling through life with the ego and social etiquette of a total butthead. What’s not to enjoy?

On the bright side, your brilliant conclusion has taught me more about how other men might interpret my brand of humor and what seven drinks can do to a six foot painting student in two hours.

And I realize that you have a penis infatuation.

Thank you for everything. It was nice knowing you.

Pink Gold

Kind Sir,

Occasionally I suffer from pressure and discomfort associated with gas.
Of that, I am not ashamed.

As you are now aware, I ensure that no one else is affected by my gastro-intestinal distress by taking ant-acid tablets, which I think I accidentally dropped on the floor at your house.

What you may not realize is that Extra Strength Cherry-Crème Chewable Gas-X does not grow on trees.

I know you are apprehensive about confronting me regarding this loss because you are probably very stoned and have discovered that Cherry Gas-X is extremely delicious. Nevertheless, it would mean a lot to me if you would return my 18 tablet solution to mild discomfort so that I can continue my pursuit of gas-free lifestyle.

Yours,

Lady at Large

I Can't Take it Anymore

I plead with you to make it stop. I hold my breath until my face turns blue to no avail. Without looking back I run to the window, gasping, and I tearfully hoist myself onto the edge of the windowsill. The reverberations of my final shriek of terror echo through the streets of West Philadelphia as I plunge to my death.

I don't like your feet.

Tucked inside dirty socks with the absorption capacity of the average sandwich baggie, they simmer in your sweat for the entire day and most of the night. That you dare unleash them ever, much less in my company, should be outlawed under the terms of the Geneva Convention.

I hate your feet more than I hate "A Prairie Home Companion." I would rather shove my right arm into an active garbage disposal than be subjected to crimes against humanity like “Guy Noir” but I would relocate to Lake Woebegone to escape the ineffable tyranny of your feet. Their stink, so foul and pungent, seems to carry its own primal scream. They are purple and weird and hairy and bony in ways that no part of any living human should be.

They are the children of Satan.

You Ate My Dollar

I want my money back. ..

Hey!

You and I don't get along that well.

In fact, I have trouble looking at you out of fear that I might be tempted to relate to you or otherwise engage in your world of deception, evil and catty bullshit. On occasion I have forced myself to make small talk with you-out of some silly, self-imposed obligation to seem professional. These conversations were extremely difficult for a number of reasons, the most significant of which is the fact that you probably you don’t understand anything about me.

And I why should I expect you to understand me?
You suck and I do not; therefore, we have nothing in common.

For your clarification, here are a few important things about me that may aid you in understanding where I stand in relation to you. Use them as a roadmap; not for further conversation, but rather, to help you to not suck so much.

-I can, and sometimes do, read.

-That sound that follows me wherever I go: It’s the sound of most other people laughing at the joke that you don’t think is funny.

-I don’t know anything about horse racing.

-My laughter is sincere. My smile is not.

- Its okay for me to make fun of myself. It is not okay for you to make fun of me.

-The only time I ever went to a country club, I was wearing a tux and handing out meat cubes.

-I believe in the value of the work I do- even if I get paid in jellybeans and have to wear a foam octopus on my head.

On a positive note, I want to thank you for sucking so deeply and truly. Your fervent sucking underscores how awesome I am in comparison and makes the boring, yet inoffensive individuals in my life seem that much more agreeable.

Best,

Olga

Dear Hanover Beans

Dear Asian Lady

Thank you for teaching me about your culture.
The other day you posed the question, "Why you do that to your face?"

I was taken by surprise. In my country, acne is a fact of life that we grudging put up with, but are otherwise happy to politely ignore.

I can only wonder about the protocol in your country. Is there a game show for people unlucky enough to have pimples? Or do you just throw rocks at them?


Our interaction provided me with a great deal of insight into the hypocrisy of our ideals and other such bullshit and I think we have much to learn from a culture so comfortable with public indictments of poor skin care.

To answer your question:
I "do this to my face" because I hate compliments.
I wear my clothing inside out and deliberately apply lipstick to my teeth for the same reason.

Please ask me something else. I am eager to engage is this exciting cultural dialogue.

No Bullshit, Please

I don't need anyone to ream my ass with sunshine.



What I need is someone to make me soup and pick me up from the bus station. Pending those benefits, just shut up and bring me the drink slip. I'm working on a story here and I don't care to be interrupted by empty compliments.

Despite myself, I am probably not a bad person. I live in a crackhouse with six crazy girls(give or take a few loser boyfriends) and three or four cats. They all have very loud sex.

I ride a bike to work in the rain at 7am. My jeans feel like a big, wet diaper while I make lattes for people who have nothing better to do but sit in a coffee shop and cruise profiles on match.com. I am subjected to people, a.k.a. customers, a.k.a. a young woman who drinks mochas daily and carries a dog in her purse. I am often forced to engage in conversations, which I can usually fake. I retreat to an espresso machine, take drink slips, and make white-chocolate mochas with whipped cream for six hours until my scalded fingers start to crack and bleed.

I come home. One roommate is sitting on the couch, stoned, watching a snowy version of public television and waiting for her boyfriend. There is cat poop in the corner. I guess someone was waiting for it to dry so that they could flick it underneath the couch. It is apparent that, since 6:30 this morning, the dishes have been eagerly awaiting my return along the banks of our shit-filled sink. Terrified of the sewage, cigarette butts and old tea bags await rescue atop empty cans of PBR and old oatmeal and rice encrusted with mustard seeds is saving chickpeas on a boyant patch of human hair. I think a small child is stuck in the drain.

I find my room, chilly and wet. I lie on my down comforter that is, more often than not, reeking of cat pee. I do not own a cat.
The power goes off on the third floor.
I put a note on the frigde, requesting reimbursement from housemates for the bills I have paid on behalf of the house. I can expect thier shares no sooner than 4 weeks after the 3rd time I've had to ask them in person and 2 days after I've started to break dishes, steal food, and put the cats outside. At heart, I am really not a bad person.

But I might deserve this. I teased the reatarded kid. More than one retarded kid. I owe it to the universe to live like this and it must be true. I live in this house because I havent moved out yet.