Hey guys and gals! Sorry, I’ll speak up. HEY GUYS AND GALS!!!
Turned the old hearing aids up? Good.
Ok, I’ve been meaning to tell you this:
Stop trying to be funny.
You’re not.
You’re not funny.
Seriously, you’re not funny.
Seriously.
Not.
Funny.
At all.
I can’t continue to fake laugh anymore. It only encourages you.
So let’s just choose the best option for everyone. Quit it.
You’ve got a lotta moxie,
Artsy
Dear Attorney Specializing in Collections,
Ugh. I do not like you at ALL. You make me really nervous and are totally awkward and gross and I think you’re probably a jerk off who sits around in his boxers and a stained tank top on weekends, watching golf and eating Cheetos.
I have a two bones to pick with you.
1.) I AM NOT STUPID. Seriously, I’m not. I can write. And read. I have a master’s degree (admittedly in music, but that is irrelevant.) I got a 32 on my ACT. If you asked me to write a paper on Walt Whitman I could write it RIGHT NOW.
So seriously, stop treating me like I’m an idiot. In fact, stop treating everyone in the office like we’re idiots. From what I can tell, all you do all day is sit in your office with the door closed so we know you won’t take ANY calls, and then run down the hallway to the bathroom, where you will assuredly not emerge for 20 minutes. Sometimes you go to court and tell a cancer patient with 7 kids that she has to pay 40,000 dollars a month for the next 290 years. Good for you.
I am SURE you’re not smarter than me. Those comments that you made about the petitions I drew up? They’re not wrong. I deleted grammar mistakes. But I guess I’ll keep writing like a retarded third grader with extraneous commas all over the place if that’ll keep you happy.
Stop talking down to me. Stop sighing and walking to the corrections box. Stop sticking your head in my office, staring at me while remaining silent, sighing, and then walking away. FUCK YOU.
2.) You need to moisturize.
Every time you bring me a file to further demonstrate how no one trained me, you inevitably have to point to something.
So I am then inevitably forced to look at your fingers.
And am then inevitably forced to choke back my vomit.
Your fingers are not only sort and sausage-like, they are also chapped and grey and flakey and GROSS. And you know what?
The skin around your mouth is the same way. It makes me want to hurl.
Maybe if I left an extra large bottle of Jergens in your mailbox, you’d get the message.
But seriously dude, watching you speak or gesture makes the chunks rise in my throat. Gonna want to work on that.
I guess that’s all I’ve got for you. You think about both of those things really hard, mmmmmmkay?
Mmmmmmkay,
Artsy
Dear Kansas City, Overland Park, and Merriam,
Hey, you silly little cities and suburbs, you. You know what would be a freaking sweet practical joke? If you’d plow after it dumped snow all over the goddamned place. No, do it! It’d be hilarious! Fucking genius, man.
Think of it! People would expect you to not plow at all, like usual! I know I’d be shocked if you got your 3 snow plow guys to actually move snow off of the road instead of sleeping in and waiting until everyone had already died on their way to work to half-assedly grind the snow into the pavement, making it actually MORE slippery!
Can you picture the look on those poor suckers’ faces if you actually did your fucking job and cleared the roads so I didn’t cry out of fear and frustration! They would shit their pants if they got to work in under 45 minutes! Hahahahahaha!
Just think about it. You’d be the captain of trickery!
Icicles and snowy hugs,
Artsy
Dear Douchebags who drive pickup trucks in the city,
Oh my God, please die. I can’t stand you.
Look, why the fuck are you driving a pickup in the city? Unless you run a landscaping business, you do not need one. I understand if you have an SUV. You suck and you’re polluting the planet, but I understand. But WTF, pickup people?
Do you have some grain you need to haul to the barn?
No?
You work in human resources and wear Tommy Bahama?
Ok, I thought so.
Part two of this question: Why do you think that owning a douchebag pickup means that you can drive like a fucking maniac all over the snowy roads? You are not in a monster truck show, and my car weighs about 150 lbs total with me IN it, so stop being a fuckstick and tailgaiting me because I’m not going 65 in 4 inches of snow. Fuck you. Go take a bath in acid.
I bet your penis is the same size as a tube of lipstick,
Artsy
Dear Maintenance Guy,
Gee, thanks for salting the stairs and driveways up to our building. That was nice. Good effort.
However.
Next time, how about you do it at 7:30 or 8:00 in the morning when we’re all sliding to our cars? It was really nice of you to do it at 3:30 this afternoon when I returned from work and everything had already melted, making your efforts totally wasted, but it would have ruled this morning not to walk on an icy death trap.
Just some constructive criticism.
Love,
Artsy
Dear Pants,
Why are you all SO LONG? It is impossible not to get snow all over you.
Or maybe the question is: WHY AM I SO SHORT THAT MY PANTS ARE SO LONG?!?!
Anyway. Sorry that you’re wet all the time on the bottom. It’s pretty much going to be that way until April or I grow up to 5′3″, whichever comes first.
xoxox,
Artsy
Dear girl on your cell phone running on the treadmill next to me
Oh my good Lord, are you freaking serious?
It can’t wait?!?! Really? Really?!?! You’ve got to complain about work to your friend right at this very second?
Oh, how was I able to remember your conversation? Let me tell you.
IT WAS BECAUSE YOU WERE SCREAMING IT INTO YOUR RED KRZR 18 INCHES AWAY FROM ME FOR 20 MINUTES.
Look, I hate working out too. I hate it with the fire of 1,000 suns. I wish I had a buddy there too.
Just get off the damned phone. There is, after all, a giant fucking sign with a phone in the middle of a big red X. This symbol is universal for “DO NOT TALK ON YOUR CELL PHONE IN THE GYM YOU DUMB WHORE.”
You can’t just plug your headphones in and watch reruns of I Love New York:Part 2 like everyone else?
Try it. New York is very good at making you mad enough to run extra fast. You guys might even like her. You have a lot in common, most prominately the fact that you’re both inconsiderate whores.
Can you believe she picked Taylor Made?,
Artsy
Dear work out fiends exchanging hill sprints on the treadmill on the other side of me,
Hey guys. You like to work out, huh? A lot?
It’s ok that you do. I admire your work ethic.
However. Do you really thing that cranking up the treadmill and then sprinting up it for 30 seconds then exchanging places with your buddy and then screaming encouraging phrases is not going to annoy everyone around you?
Because if you did, you’re wrong.
DEAD WRONG.
This is not boot camp. This is not an aerobics class. You are not alone in this gym.
In fact, you guys are pretty close to people. Namely, me. About 18 inches away. You’re close enough for me to get hit with little sweat flecks (it’s ok). I can hear you loud and clear. And so can everyone in China.
I really want to like you. You seem nice and you both are super duper attractive.
But it’s going to be impossible if you keep yelling “Three more! Yeah! Do it! Three more!!!”
As I told the girl on her cell phone, I Love New York: Part 2 is very important.
Way to motivate,
Artsy
Dear really super fit post-menopausal lady sweating all over the place,
Oh my God, you sweat so much.
How do you sweat that much?!?! I want to sweat that much!
I’m trying to figure out what you are doing to leave gallons of sweat all over the ground, and I can’t figure it out. We’re on the same machine. We’ve been running about the same amount of time. I think we’re both running at 6.0.
So how are you so sweaty and badass!?! I must know!
You’ve also got huge arm muscles. You are my mom’s age. You are AWESOME!
Teach me the way. I want huge arm muscles and to have sweat running down them. Rad!!!!
You go girl!,
Artsy
Dear adorable post-meopausal ladies who should go to Curves instead,
You are so cute. I don’t get annoyed like everyone else when you take 150 years to share the shoulder press machine.
I love watching you. I love your coordinated sweatsuit attire. I love it when you ride the stationary bike for 12 minutes and then get off, complaining to each other about how long that took. You’re adorable. Keep doing your thing, cause you look great.
Love and kisses,
Artsy
Dear the hottest guy I have ever seen,
I think I love you. You are very, very pretty.
You always hold the door for me, even when I am still in the parking lot. I like you, sir. You don’t say anything when I say thank you, but that’s ok. You can be the strong silent type.
You’re really tall. Like 6′5″. Normally I’m not attracted to really tall guys, but I sure do think you’re gorgeous.
We should go out, even though I am pretty sure you’re probably really, really, really, PAINFULLY stupid or an asshole. Yes, I’m aware that you’re about 6.7 million times more attractive than I am, but I’m pretty cute when I do things like “shower” and “wear makeup” and am not “covered in sweat.”
Take a chance. I’m really good in the sack.
Love,
Artsy
Dear Thugs,
Why are you at the gym?
Are you working out? Because I have never seen you lift a weight or step foot on a cardio machine.
Mostly you just walk around with the hood on your sweatshirt up lookin’ all tough and scary.
Did 24-hour Fitness hire you to intimidate people into being fit? I’m so curious!
Because if it’s your job to walk around being scary, you are AMAZING at it.
Please don’t stab me,
Artsy
Obviously you know I got back from New York like, a week ago, but I’ve been saving these open letters for a rainy day (or, more applicably, a snowy day).
Dear Guy on the Plane with Sunglasses On,
Wow, buddy. It must be pretty bright on this early evening flight, because you’re wearing some pretty sweet Ray Bans.
There are only 4 reasons for this:
1. You are allergic to sunlight.
2. You have the hangover of the century.
3. You’re a voyeur and want to stare at people undetected. Sexy!
4. You’re a massive tool.
Sir, I’m thinking that you are a tool. In fact, you’re a whole box of tools. No. Wait. You’re a whole shed of tools.
Seriously, the only person on earth cool enough to wear sunglasses inside is Bono. And you, sir, are no Bono.
Puff Daddy (P. Diddy?) can’t pull it off, and neither can you. Especially not in the damned Atlanta airport, for fuck’s sake.
While we’re at it, girl jeans, skinny-cut girl jeans specifically, do not look good on dudes. I understand that you want to show off your perfect size 4 body, you skinny little bitch, but all it does is give you a man-style camel toe.
I realize that I’m not a fashionista. All my clothes are from Target and I have more flat shoes and black turtlenecks than you can shake a stick at.
But I at least resemble a normal human, not some fashion week knockoff. Just wear sweatpants like everybody else.
Just trying to help,
Artsy
Dear crazies who insist on pooping in front of me,
Really, guys? Is that necessary?
One person pooping in front of me is enough. But both of you?
I wish I was into scheisse porn, so at least I could write a Penthouse-style letter about your public defecation.
But alas, no.
So please quit it, dudes. I hate poop.
Sweet-smelling kisses,
Artsy
Dear Teeny-tiny Old Ladies shuffling down the streets of New York,
Oh my God, HOW ARE YOU STILL ALIVE!?!?!
You move with the pace of a crippled sloth. You are 4′9″. You weigh maybe 87 lbs soaking wet. You look like you have no idea what’s happening around you.
Yet, you are everywhere! I saw about 7 of you a day, every day, and never any of you twice.
Are you the keepers of the Holy Grail? You look like a much frailer female version of the immortal knight in Indiana Jones. There must be some sort of immortality secret you’re keeping from the rest of the world, because if I was going to mug and slaughter someone, you’d be the easiest target on the planet.
And still, you survive and are (seemingly) flourishing. You go on with your bad, ancient selves.
Girl Power!,
Artsy
Dear Horrible Parents,
I hate you. You made my uterus shrivel up and die.
Shut your kids up.
Shut.
Them.
Up.
I don’t mean little kid babble, because that’s funny. I mean screaming ridiculousness that you seemingly ignore. Next to me. In a small enclosed space.
A muzzle would work wonders,
Artsy
That’s it for right now. More later.
Dear Banana Pinata,
Let’s talk.
I think we might be soulmates. I’m intelligent and come from a midwestern home and like to read Walt Whitman and you are fried and filled with caramel and bananas.
It’s like God saw us and said “these two must be together.”
I can see it now: the two of us cuddling in bed, listening to the sound of the rain as you cradle me in the sweet, sweet embrace of your sticky caramel arms. Our children will get the best of both worlds; my brown eyes and your walnut topping.
Let’s do it, banana pinata. I want to make a life with you.
Banana kisses and fried hugs,
Artsy
Dear Opera Companies,
Hey. Don’t you have a bunch of people that work for you? Because it doesn’t really seem like you do, considering you’re super irresponsible.
Riddle me this: how come I have to get all my shit in on time and totally perfect, but you can’t seem to do things like “respond to emails or phone calls” or “send letters/emails/anything at all on time” or “treat people like human beings with feelings” ?
I’m just one lady. You’re a giant team of people. And I swear to God, you’re a team of sadistic bastards.
Let me tell you how un-funny it is when you leave people hanging until the last minute, or don’t respond to people contacting you. About as un-funny as finding out the hamburger you just ate was made of dead babies. You wonder why singers are fucking insane and narcissistic…it’s because you cause us to obsess about everything until we go batshit. I have a friend doing covert ops for me so I don’t come off as crazy, which actually makes me even MORE CRAZY. So thanks for that. The next time someone calls you 30 times or throws a diva fit you know who to blame.
Fuck you in the ass using lemon juice and salt water for lube,
Artsy
Dear Jobs,
Why are you so impossible?
How hard is it to find a really good paying job with super nice people that has hours that I am available for that will let me take entire weeks and days off in the next couple of months that is also really interesting and rewarding and gives me some medica benefits so I can stop worrying about getting into a car accident?
I mean, come on now. I know you’re out there.
Still looking,
Artsy
Dear Body,
I’m sorry for being really bad to you. I know that my going to the gym is really nice, but that I totally undo that by sitting in the recliner all day (you can talk to Jobs about that, though) and by eating entire pizzas out of stress and the fact that it’s really cheap.
However. I really wish you’d stop taking it out on me by gaining weight and feeling lethargic and horrible all the time. That’s just not right. Jesus said to turn the other cheek, and I think you might want to go ahead and follow that advice.
Making me chubby is not going to help. In fact, I’m going to eat even MORE and work out even LESS because I feel worse about myself. You know that, buddy. We’ve been together since the beginning. So quit it.
Still pals?,
Artsy
Dear Horror Movies,
Why do I watch you? It does not help my already very sparse sleeping habits to watch movies involving people eating each other and vomiting blood into each other’s mouths.
Uncool. Now you are in my dreams in a zombie-vampire-serial killer mix.
Shitty shitty shit shit.
Ghoulfully yours,
Artsy
Dear Job Market
Hey. What’s up? Nothing much here. Just chillin’.
In fact, I’ve been just chillin’ for a while now.
And do you want to know why?
You are impossible.
Like, I know that I don’t have things like “skills” and “good availability,” but seriously. I’m really good at bullshitting people, and that’s half the battle when you’re trying to get a job. Unfortunately, there aren’t any jobs to be had, even if I could get an interview to put my BS skills to good use.
So fuck you, Job Market. I hope you like washing vaginas, because you are a total douchebag.
Love and kisses,
Katy
Dear Six Feet Under,
You are awesome. Every time that you are on Bravo I am sucked in to an entire day in the recliner, and I never, ever feel guilty or bad about it, because a day with you is never a day wasted.
I wish you were a person, Six Feet Under. I would make the sweetest, most tender love to you.
Marry Me,
Katy
Dear Bank Account,
Congratulations on not being completely empty this week. Unfortunately I’m going to have to empty you again so that I can pay all my bills. Better late than never, right?! LOL! Be patient with me. I know that lacking a stable evironment must be hard on you emotionally. I’ll try to save some (any) money pretty soon, ok?!?! BFF!
XOXO!
Katy
Dear Girl at My Gym With a Perfect Body,
Hi. I know that I stare at you all the time. We go to the gym at the same time, and I envy you. A lot.
You’re what I would look like if I really tried super hard and dieted like a fiend for a year. You have a rad, petite-curvy-girl body. And I’m jeaous.
You’re not ridiculously skinny, but you’ve still got a flat stomach and are really toned and look good in shorts and a t-shirt. Plus you’ve got really pretty, long, shiny hair. Hair that I have always wanted.
I’m like you’re less cute cousin with about 12 extra lbs and short hair.
I hope you’re not creeped out, Girl at My Gym With a Perfect Body. I’m not a lesbian and I’m not going to go all Single White Female on your ass. I just kind of want you to be my goal. Please excuse my oogling.
Nice Ass,
Katy
