I hate you today. I ironed you but you’re still wrinkled. You’re a petite but your arms are long enough for an orangutan. Plus why are your buttons so hard to unbutton? You’d think you were a straight jacket, a business casual straight jacket.
Dear Ass, Stomach, and Thighs:
Why are you so big lately? You’re practically bursting out of your clothes! Surely my eating more and exercising less has nothing to do with it.
Don’t tell me it’s time for another haircut! What the fuck? You’re all dry and already approaching mullet stage. Plus I’m tired of you. I dreamed the other night that you were long and soft. But instead you’re coarse and stick up all over my head in the morning like some kind of anime character’s. Maybe you need to be a bob.
Dear Pants Hangers I Bought at the Container Store Yesterday:
I can’t believe you can’t even hold a pair of pants without the pants falling off, or the little holder things spontaneously disengaging. No wonder you were only $1.99. Then again, the free pants holders from Lord & Taylor are the shit. Explain me that.
I hate you too. Why do you come three or four in a row, instead of staggered? Why do you insist on blasting your A/C? Also, the other day, why did you wait FOREVER for that one guy to count change from his PLASTIC BAG? Seriously, you call yourself a New Yorker?
Dear Work Computer:
I might hate you worst of all. Why do you take a year to open Outlook? And why is the sound card suddenly not working? Why do I have to click things a billion times for them to open? Why do you freeze when I open sites like Gawker and Jezebel (not that I’m looking at those sites at work, of course not!)? Or when I try to write a very important, surely work-related post in WordPress or Twitter?
Everyone, I’m telling you all this for your own good. I hope to see you shape up or ship out.
Hating your guts,
The Bad Luck Girl