|If it's Friday, it must be time for useless missives
||[Sep. 30th, 2011|02:45 pm]
Dear weather: Uncle. Really. You are killing me. My arthritic knee is petitioning to secede from my body so that it can move to a warm, DRY climate. My fingers have half a mind to join the secession. Saturday, too? Let me guess, NEXT weekend, when I will be spending the weekend primarily inside, THAT’S when you’re going to get all lovely, sunny and dry, right? |
Dear Colleague: Quit sucking your teeth. Stop it. Knock it off. Oh, my god, I’m going to come over there and knock them out of your head. Except then you’d suck your gums….and my imagination suspects that may be a greater evil.
Dear Hair: Quit growing so fast. Or be blonde on your own again. Either way – you are costing me a FORTUNE and I really don’t have time in my life to be hitting the salon every month, as enjoyable as it is to escape for two hours and have pretty people massage my scalp and play with my hair.
Dear Colleague: If you are wearing so much perfume that I can track your path through the veal pen maze, like an upright bloodhound in business casual dress, you are wearing TOO. DAMN. MUCH. Okay, okay, my nose is very, very sensitive. But still. I shouldn’t be able to taste it on my palate when I talk to someone in the hallway. You are making my vomeronasal organ SAD.
Dear Clock: Let's make a deal, you and I. Twenty six hours for me, okay? It's getting near the end of the day, on a Friday and my head is near splitting, for I cannot decide whether I am grateful and relieved that the week is almost over, or panicking and anxious because the week is almost over. Another week farther behind. Sigh.