Life - a.k.a. Sucky McSuckSuck

Dear Life,

If you're going to screw me over, I would at least appreciate a nice dinner first.
Sure, I may have become a bit of nag in the last few months - "Wow, you really suck right now", "Please stop sucking so hard", and "ENOUGH WITH THE SUCKAGE ALREADY!" can all seem a bit harsh. I understand that. I do. However, your all-encompassing determination to mess with every last centimeter of my emotional, physical, spiritual and habitual self has been nothing short of mean.

"Take another little piece of my heart now, baby..."

The last I checked, the following apply to you:

1. There are billions of others out there - so why play favorites?
2. Karma is your coworker... kind of... ?
3. You would have no purpose without people to, um, live you...

I fail, then, to understand why you seem so damn determined to target every aspect of my existence with your Ray Gun of Perpetual Bullshit.

However, since I am not quite the evil nag you seem to think I am, I have brainstormed a (brief) list of solutions:

1. Make like the '60's and spread the love (or pain).
- I mean, really. What's with opening a can of Koncentrated Krystal-Killing Kola? Sounds a wee bit high in cholesterol to me. Why not target someone who has, I don't know, just punted a puppy off the roof of a mosque they just pissed on? Seems like they may deserve this epic beat-down more than I would. Maybe.

"I just want to kick you while you're down, man..."

2. Have a little chat with Karma before acting.
- There has got to be some kind of record keeping system. I mean, really, between the two of you couldn't you form some kind of procedure for when, where, what, and how much crap one person can take at one time. You know the saying "All work and no play makes Krystal a dull girl"? Well, switch "dull" with "dead" and you'll be headed in the right direction.

I buy the effing toilet paper. That has to count for something, right?

3. Read Job 7:17-21.
- Are you TRYING to kill me off?! If the purpose of Life is to be lived, then why hit me with the arsenal? I feel like a cross between a slice of Swiss cheese and Silly Putty - neither are sexy, and I don't appreciate it. I know I don't have it as bad as that poor ol' dude Job did, but there was really a point two weeks ago where it was close. When everything that can go wrong does, it's a good clue that maybe, just maybe, it's not all my fault (for once). I don't have the power to give someone breast cancer. I don't have the power to flood the crawl space beneath our house and bust the brand new gas furnace (but I wouldn't). I don't have the power to give my sons Pink Eye, hives, upper respiratory infections, diaper rash, asthma and night terrors... but something out there does, and I would like to calmly, politely, June Beaver-ly ask it to LEAVE US THE FUCK ALONE.

This, too, is not sexy...

All-in-all, I'd say this was a very therapeutic letter. I was able to get things off my chest and, if you were to read this, you would (of course) take all of my suggestions to heart and magically transform yourself into the LESS SUCKY version that I know you have inside of you.

I know, I know... what a bitchy letter. I wish I could say that I'm sorry, but you've just tapped me out. There are people - and entire countries - that have it much, much worse than I could even comprehend, and reminding myself of that does help on occasion.

Until you start kicking me in the ovaries. Again.

Shape up,

Krystal

Just WHO is this snarky gal?

In order to give you some background on, well, ME... the Writer O' The Snarky Comments (and to prove that I am, in fact, getting back into writing my probably over-thought-out opinions), I decided to fill out one of the numerous personality surveys flitting around Facebook.

Read, enjoy, and prosper!
(And be on the look-out for more of the (Not So) Lovely Letters, coming soon!)

State your name for the record:

Krystal Ann (Pennington) Bishop... of which "Bishop" is used more than "Krystal", and usually of my own accord. What can I say? I have the hots for my husband, and his last name is cooler than my first name.





Identify your gender:

Mommy. (Which is to say "gender neutral" or, more accurately, "gender non-important".) (Although, given that I am, in fact, a mother... I guess it means that I have girl parts, which would lead me to believe that I am, or was at some time, female.)





Please state your birthdate:

Way Earlier Than Anyone Should Ever Have To Be Awake Unless They Are Bringing Me Coffee A.M. on October 20th, 1983.





Identify your place of birth:

Bethesda, Maryland... along with about 1.3 billion other Navy brats whose maternal units also played "Follow The Soldier".





Where do you live?

I am always fearful of this question; not for the ever-so-complex answer of "just south of Seattle, Washington", but because I can never seem to stop singing Seattle's praises and am, therefor, convinced that the overpopulation of every major and minor suburb of my amazing city is my direct fault.





Hair and eyes:

My current hair color is my favorite yet - a reddish brown (or brownish red?) that I owe entirely to my friend, Lyndsey, for her every-6-weeks battle against the black that it first presented itself. My eyes are kind of slutty, switching colors from blue to gray to hazel, depending on light refraction and blah-blah-blah... but are usually a blue-gray.





What is your preferred OS?

I love me some PCs. Like nerd-father, like nerd-daughter.





Do you use a mouse pad? How about a screen saver?

At work, a mouse pad is a must. Well, I suppose I could toss it... but then what would collect the different sugar flakes from my morning tasties? Nothing, that's what. At home, I use my effectively outdated laptop sans mouse. My screensavers are bubbles, always.





What is your favorite color?

Blood red is a constant... it's just so damn pretty. Ooh, and that green-blue, hazy color that the water gets right before a storm; I'm fond of that one, too (just, apparently, not enough to actually figure out a name).





What is your favorite hobby?

Until I can find a way to read obsessively and cook new recipes at the same time (without singeing my arm hair again), the two are tied.





What are your favorite TV shows?

Between Jeopardy, Wipe Out, and anything ever seen on The Food Network, I'm fairly set in my ways. Now, if they would just bring back Gilmore Girls...





What is your favorite smell?

Wood fires. Baking bread. Vanilla and salt water, together. My husband when he has been working with metal all day. My son after a bath. Way too many 'dirtied vanilla' scents to list.





What is the best feeling in the world?

A coffee buzz while smelling a new book.





What is the worst feeling in the world?

Holding my son down while the nurse sticks him with a needle, and seeing that look of total betrayal in his tear-filled eyes.





What are your favorite things to do on the weekends?

Read, eat while reading, read about cooking things to eat, cook, snuggle, Seattle (it's a verb now, thanks), and write.





What is one vain thing about yourself of which you are proud?

With the (much needed) help of weight loss surgery in 2006, I've lost over 185 lbs of "oh, that's just not healthy"/"Ick"/"life-stealing fat"... and now I have curves instead of rolls. Okay... there are still some rolls...





What is your ultimate vacation spot?

Disneyland still wins this title for me, as it is the only place I have been to that has allowed me to completely, totally immerse all of my senses in a fantasy world.





What is the first thing you think of when you wake up in the morning?

How my son managed to get into that particular sleeping position... and why it took me so long to notice his knee in my right eye.





Do you get motion sickness?

Oddly enough, only during my period. Please don't ever call it "that time of the month", or apply other pithy sayings meant to cover up what is, duh, a medical necessity for the survival of our kind. You may, however, call it "THE CURSE FROM THE BOWELS OF HELL", if you'd like.





Pen or pencil?

Unless I'm doing some mathematical problem (read: a gun is to my head and someone is holding my family hostage), I use a pen. A blue pen, preferably. If I am working on a story, however, I will probably be typing.





How many rings before you answer the phone?

I guess it depends on how much I like my current ringtone. I've been known to let someone call and call... and call... because the song that plays as a result of their need to contact me is just too damn catchy. (Probably not the nicest thing to do, though... sorry.)





What are your favorite foods?

Fresh seafood (especially Dungeness crab, red snapper, mussels, scallops, and Copper River salmon), Thai peanut sauce, fresh baked bread with butter and honey, oatmeal chocolate chip cookies, creme brule, nacho cheese sauce (with little-to-no real cheese involved), Doritos, deep-fried Twinkies, gravies, quiche, and coffee. It IS a food.





What is your number one pet peeve?

Any form of a superiority complex.





Do you sleep with stuffed animals?

As my 2 1/2 year old son is currently - and for the foreseeable future-ly - occupying the bed I share with my husband, we have two incarnations of Bobo, the monkey. One has a microchip with our voices saying something sappy, imbedded in his left leg... the other has Velcro on his hands so that he can 'hug' you. Both are Bobo, and both end up under my head as makeshift pillow-adjustments.





If you could have any job you wanted, what would it be?

I would be a multi-published author, and co-owner/operator/cook-person of a cafe.





What is on your bedroom walls?

An insanely creepy felt picture covering a gaping hole, and a cork board with outdated pictures of family and friends. Oh, and cat hair, because that stuff gets EVERYWHERE.





What are your favorite movies?

The Princess Bride, Zombieland, Hot Fuzz, episodes 4 - 6 of Star Wars, The Notebook, Fantasia, Cinderella, and anything NOT starring one SpongeBob SquarePants.





What's under your bed?

Small pieces of luggage, a few socks, broken glass from a middle-of-the-night-meatloaf-sandwich-craving-gone-wrong, a Brobee doll, and my husband's wedding suit in a garment bag.





What is your favorite number?

Twenty.





Marvel or DC?

Marvel, hands down... even though my favorite villianess (Poison Ivy) is a DC girl.





What one thing do you wish more people already knew?

How to drive in the rain. It's not as hard as you make it out...

Girl Scouts - or, The Temptresses of Tagalong Town

Dear Girls Who Dress In Strange, Outdated Uniforms and Sell Overpriced (Yet Still D-e-lectable) Cookies For The Briefest Time Period EVER,

Let me teach you something about this magical world that you might, one day, experience (if I let you live that long)... a world called "pregnancy". You see, in this happy land of swollen ankles, cracked ribs, and food cravings so fierce that no purveyor of edibles is safe, the will of the pregnant woman = law. Please her, and you've saved your own life. In this magical world, Oh Toters of the Tagalongs, it's best to just give Mama what she wants... and, right now, Mama wants to get her hands on some Thin Mints. And Tagalongs. And Samoas. And Lemon Chalet Cremes. How am I supposed to accomplish this task when you only peddle your wares for all of THREE WEEKS A YEAR?!

The last I checked, the following issues apply to you:

1. You, too, are susceptible to this recession, Oh Darlings of Detestable Attire
2. You have a quota, sure, but you also have a soul. I hope.
3. You have parents... parents who should know how to read a freaking MAP.

I fail, then, to understand why you continue to limit your sales period to 3 - 4 measly weeks a year. Really... REALLY?!

However, since I have yet to consume a single, freaking cookie this year (see point DIRECTLY above) and still have my wits about me, I have brainstormed a (brief) list of solutions.

1. Up. Your. Sales.
- Notice how you're having to cut back on how many cookies you're able to produce every year? It's not because the Magic Flour Fairy forgot to wave her wand above the factory, or whatever other nonsense your Troupe Leader has filled your dainty-hatted heads with... it's because your prices are too high, and your selling period is too short. I mean, think about it: You're badgering me to pay $4 for a box of cookies that will, in all humiliating honesty, last all of 2 blocks from store-to-home (1 block if there are traffic lights on that particular road), and you're only available for 3 - 4 weeks?! Darlings of Chocolate-Dunked Delectables, does that make sense?

2. Show a less demonic side (or, if that's too tall an order, just shoot for a softer side), and I'll show you my wallet.
- Lay off the freaking guilt trips, already! I know you reeeeeeeally have your heart set on that sparkling baton for selling 500 boxes of cookies, and you reeeeeeeeeally want to win that trip to Disneyland that you'd get by selling 74,500 more... but, um, it won't happen by jumping in front of my shopping cart with two of your closest friends. No, all that will accomplish is you getting run over by said cart, and your mother getting an earful when she tries to yell at me for hitting her precious Mini-Me. Have you heard of lying? Why not try THAT tactic the next time we meet in front of Safeway? Here's what it would look like:
You: "Gosh, lady... you're so pretty."
Me: "My, aren't you just the sweetest thing! Whatever are you selling? I'll buy all of them."
SEE?!

3. Go where the money is.
- Chances are, Susie Sixpack, it ain't the local Cash-N-Carry. By now, your parents are probably sick to death of hearing your endless blathering about quotas and goals and dreams and visions of a better tomorrow, which makes them your ideal business partner. Couple your new-found ability to tell boldfaced lies to complete strangers with your parents' knowledge of the community you live in, and you should be able to zero-in on the wealthiest neighborhoods in no time. Disneyland? It's yours.

All-in-all, I'd say this was a very therapeutic letter. I was able to get things off my chest and, if you were to read this, you would (of course) take all of my suggestions to heart and magically transform yourself into the Whores of Wholesome Cookie Wonders that I know you have inside of you.

In all honesty, your organization is a great one. I love the concept of girls sticking together, learning some pretty valuable life skills, and raising money in a way that isn't likely to hurt another corporation's bottom line (aside from the evil mega-giants of Nabisco et all). Heck, I was even a Brownie... for all of 6 months, which was how long it took me to realize that we were called "Brownie", not that we got to eat them.

Now, lengthen your selling period or I swear on everything holy in Pregnancy-topia that I will teach my toddler that it is okay to pee on girls in ugly uniforms.

Do a Good Turn Daily,

Krystal

Baristas of Breve-ville

Dear Especially Perky Baristas that Won't Leave Me Alone,

How are you this morning? OMG, like, I KNOW, right?
...
Do me (and your other terrified customers) a favor and remove the espresso I.V. from your vein for a moment. We need to have a chat - you know, one of those things you're so fond of having at O-Dark-Thirty in the morning...?
Your perkiness is at whole milk levels; something that no one should ever succumb to on a daily basis. If I were to be honest - which, let's face it, what's the point? You only remember me because of my tipping tendencies - I'd say that you'd need to knock it back to a watery, almost see-through 'skinny'.

The last I checked, the following apply to you:
1. Your job is to supply me with caffeine in the form of my choosing.
2."Starbucks" isn't a language.
3. Judging your customer's drink is frowned upon.
4. Excessive perkiness doesn't improve the taste of the beverage.

I fail, then, to understand why I - and my java-fiending friends - are having to live in fear of your multiple personality ways! One second you're Chatty Cathy, the next you're Depresso Espresso.

However, since my love affair with the coffee bean is a deep, abiding one... and your stores are the most abundant (and freaking addictive)... I have brainstormed a (brief) list of solutions.

1. Stop trying to change my freaking order.
(I know you have a sales goal to meet. I've worked retail, I've worked food service, I get it. What doesn't make sense to me is why, after I've ordered my usual (tall caramel macchiato - I LOVE YOU!!!!), you proceed to up-sell me.
"Would you like to try that with whole milk?"
"How about an apple fritter with that?"
"Ooh, would you like to add fifteen more shots?"
I'm sorry, Susie/Becky/Tiffany/Lucy/Cici/Katie/Ee-ee, but my ass would likely explode if I were to go on any of those detours. Let's stick with the order, m'kay?

2. I took German for 6 years and ASL for 3; I don't need to learn another language.
(Why must you correct me when I say "small", "medium", or "large", Oh Foamer of my Froth? YOU KNOW WHAT I'M REFERRING TO... I know you do, because you immediately - and ever so passionately - correct me with "tall", "grande", or "venti". Um, wha-? Are you going to make my drink wrong because of some (non-existent) language barrier? I'm sorry, but if the Latino gentleman making my Orange Chicken at Panda Express can understand me, I'm thinking you can, too. Unless using your branding terminology will magically take the burnt taste out of the espresso you're pulling, LET IT GO.)

3. Give me the stink-eye when I order my drink with whole milk one more time, and I will kick your breve-booty.
(Remember my first point, about not up-selling me? Well, when I DO decide to indulge a wee bit and order a grande (yes, terminology) whole milk eggnog latte with whip (ok, that's a crap-ton of indulgence, but I'MPREGNANTLEAVEMEALONE), don't you think it's a taaaaad rude to pointedly glance at my belly/hips/bat-wings? I don't need your judgement, Oh Size Two Mochachino Mistress... I don't need it one bit. What I do need is a double chocolate brownie to drown out the guilt I now feel.)

4. Greet. Take Order. Smile. Give Change. Lather, rinse, repeat.
(Close your eyes for a minute - you may need to step away from the bar for a second, I wouldn't want you to burn yourself - and take a journey with me. It's early on a Monday morning, it's raining, and the sun is refusing to make an appearance. Your store is full of what you first assume to be the walking undead... but, no, you realize... it's a crowd of overworked, under-rested adult members of society. Their slow 'shuffle-stomp-stop' pace to your counter does little to distract from the vast emptiness in their eyes. What is the proper way to greet said zomb-er, uh, customers?
A. "GOOOOOOOOD MORNING! Welcome to Starbucks!!! OMG, have you noticed this RAIN?! It's almost enough to make me kill myself, you know? Okay so, like, what can I get started for you?"
B. "Good morning, Ms./Mr. How are you? Oh, hold on, your sweater is aDORable... is that Vera Wang? No? Good, I hear she uses child labor, and my Econ. professor, who totally looks like a mixture between George Clooney and Diane Keaton, said that child labor is a result of globalization. Anyway, would you like try our new Latin American blend?"
OR...
C. "I'm sorry you have to be alive right now. What can I get you to make it better?"
I'll give you a hint: A and B are out.

All-in-all, I'd say this was a very therapeutic letter. I was able to get things off my chest and, if you were to read this, you would (of course) take all of my suggestions to heart and magically transform yourself into the Magical Mocha-slinging Sirens that I know you have inside of you.

In all sincerity, I wouldn't keep coming back if I hated the service. I appreciate your ability to whip up some of the best caffeinated beverages this side of 4-LOCO... and still have the grace and patience to deal with some of the craziest customers in the world. My love affair with the caramel macchiato has gone on for over a decade (not at all worrisome), and I owe it all to the baristas who make it juuuuuust right.

Now, if you don't lower the price on your holiday drinks, I'm going to have to cheat on you with Tully's WAY more than I have been. I may be an enthusiastic drinker o' the java, but I am one slutty customer.

Keep it frothy,

Krystal

Office Park Co-habitors (Pt. 1)

Dear Renters of Office Space Near Me,

How are you?
No, wait, don't answer that. I know exactly how you are (along with how many bowel movements you have, your favorite cheese, and the name of your grandfather's Proctologist), because you blab it in every open space near my office suite; the hallways, the bathrooms, the lobbies, the weight room... it's enough to make me want to pour Ex-Lax in your water cooler.

The last I checked, the following apply to you:

1. You have your own office.
2. You have access to cash with which to buy candy, and a bowl to put it in.
3. You have your own cell phone.
4. You have the ability to put your makeup on while parked as well as while driving.

I fail, then, to understand why you insist on plaguing me with your constant jibber-jabbering annoyances. There are over 100 different tenants in this office park; the least you can do is stick to some common courtesies.

However, since I am a conscientious Co-Inhabitant of Office Land, I have brainstormed a (brief) list of solutions.

1. Stop conducting business (or referencing your "biiiiidness") in the common areas of the office park.
(The lobby of our building, while generic and outdated, is a bright, open area where many of the tenants like to take their breaks, stretch their legs, and escape from office politics for a little while. Why, then, do you insist on conducting business calls in our Safe Place?! I have lost count of how many times I've been taking a breather or calming myself down over some new drama, when someone comes stomping in to the lobby, swearing on and on about the latest batch of financial reports.
This, Oh Ruiner of Times Enjoyable, is what my brain then runs through:
1. Oh JEEBUS, they're annoying.
2. Wait... did he just say "actuarial"?
3. Oh, shityshityshitshit, I haven't booked ____'s hotel room, and he's giving his presentation on Friday!
4. No! Friday is our executive meeting!! I haven't run financials or done the blanket approvals for AP/AR, and it's already 4:00!
5. WHY AM I NOT BACK AT MY DESK SLAVING AWAY?!?!
6. Ooh, a penny...!
This doesn't just extend to business calls - calls that you could be making IN YOUR OFFICE... the one you're paying RENT for - but to personal or side-business as well. For the 70th time, I do not want to buy Avon, host a Tupperwear party, join the La Leche League of Bellevue, co-sponsor your child's (likely crappy) soccer team, volunteer at Little People's Anonymous, or help you pick out scrapbook designs.)

2. Stop pretending to stop by to chat when your entire focus is on my candy dish.
(Don't make it dirty. Now... here's where you're really running into a problem: I'm a (part)Jewish girl, who happens to handle our organization's finances, and who also happens to have a 1.5 year old at home. Do you know what that means, Oh Eater of My Edible Excellencies? I can be the stingiest penny-counter you have ever met. Do you then think it wise to 'stop by for a quick chat' in order to consume handful after handful of the candy I just bought for our office and legitimate visitors? If so, keep eating... I've left a niiiice piece of strychnine in there for you.)

3. Instead of telling your coworker the details of last night's diarrhea marathon while walking down the hallway, up your text message allotment on your cell phone and take that route instead.
(Just this morning, I walked in to the Women's bathroom on the second floor of the 'B' building. Both stalls were occupied... but that didn't kill the conversation going on inside, nope. Two women were conducting verbal comparisons of the color of urine they had produced. Please, stop and contemplate what walking in on that conversation was like for me.
...
..
.
Just STOP IT!)

4. Repeat after me: "Drive... park... then apply mascara."
(Your boss would rather you show up alive and well (hooray, productivity!) than hobbling and bleeding (hooray, Krystal's temper!). I promise. You know what else I promise, Oh Swerver of the SUV? I promise that the next time I come grill-to-grill with your car in the parking lot because you didn't want to wait the 35 seconds it would take to park before applying your layers of makeup, I will not swerve out of your way. You'll get a to buy me a new car, and I'll never let you forget it. I mean, really... how good of a job are you going to do on your makeup if you're having the ever-so-inconvenient responsibility of operating a two-ton motor vehicle anyway? I'm just looking out for you.)

All-in-all, I'd say this was a very therapeutic letter. I was able to get things off my chest and, if you were to read this, you would (of course) take all of my suggestions to heart and magically transform yourself into the Considerate Examples of Professional Neighbors that I know you have inside of you.

In all honesty, this is one of the nicest places - location and building-wise - I've ever had the privilege to work out of... second only to the Port of Seattle (but, really, who can compete with a saltwater stream running the length of the ground floor... or being on a pier in Seattle, with a view of the Blue Angels as they fly by... or being only 5 minutes from Pike Place... or - ah! Ok. Sorry...). I guess what I'm trying to say is that everyone has contributed to making this a safe, well-maintained place to work, and that is something I seriously appreciate.

Now, stop cat-calling to all the construction men outside. You're making it increasingly difficult for me to lure one back to my office.

See you in the bathroom,

Krystal

Teenagers of Little Sense (Pt. 1)

Dear Teenagers of the 21st Century,

OMG, wtf is wrng wit u?
Whether it is your obvious lack of clothing practicality, your blatant disregard for personal hygiene, or your selfishly manic desire for the newest and best of everything you can get your hands on, I'm just plain tired of you whippersnappers and your idiocy.

The last I checked, the following apply to you:
1. "Eighteen" is still a "teen"
2. Chat-speak is not a language offered in school
3. Respecting your elders = getting to live
4. Hormones are a part of life... not the POINT of it.

I fail, then, to understand why you are so extremely annoying. Here, I'll put it to you in the form of an "if/then" SAT question: "If THE WORLD IS DOING YOU A FAVOR BY LETTING YOU CONTINUE TO EXIST, then the following must also be true: A) YOU SHOULD PROBABLY KISS THE GROUND THE ADULTS WALK ON, B) YOU SHOULD STOP DRESSING LIKE A HOBO, C) YOU SHOULD THINK ABOUT SOMEONE WHO ISN'T YOU, or D) All of the above."

Guess which is the correct answer.

However, since I, too, was once an Annoying Mass of Adolescent Angst (hard to believe, I know), I have brainstormed a (brief) list of solutions.

1. Until you are able to support yourself fully, just admit that you need your parents or other adults in your lives.
(Forgive me for failing to notice the cruel torture of having a place to live, free of charge. How could I have overlooked the depravity of having clothes provided to you, also free, and in the correct size and gender class. And, oh, let me not forget the food; how dare your parents or caregivers provide you with all of the meals, snacks, in-betweens-ies, and drinks that your exponentially morphing bodies need to survive and thrive. Seriously, GET A HOLD OF YOURSELVES! Ignoring the fact that it isn't cool to bitch and complain about how horrible your parents are (because, really, what does that accomplish?), it's just plain stupid. Do you honestly want them to never feed, clothe, or house you again?)

2. Unless your goal is to work at McDonald's when you're 40, stop incorporating chat-speak into your daily vocabulary.
(Dear, Sweet, Youth of America... you are quickly becoming the most unintelligent generation to ever gangsta-walk on this earth. It's one thing to send your friends a quick 'OMG', 'LOL', 'u r gr8' - filled text message in between class, but it becomes another thing entirely when I hear chat-speak come flying out of your mouth in an actual conversation. With a human. In the real world. I know we've all been taught that "it's what's on the inside that counts", but when the words you're using sound like a stroke victim attempting to spell their name, well, no one is going to care about what's on the inside. You may think you have a winning personality and enough charm/luck/money/intelligence to get you far in life, but the second a potential boss hears you bust out with "I saved the company over $3.2 million by catching a sales mistake last year and, OMG, let me tell you, Mr. Douchehammer, I was ROTFLOL," you're outta there.)

3. If you swear, glare, or "holla" at me on the bus one more time, I will drop you.
(I use profanity on a near regular basis, I admit it. The leg-up I have on you, however, comes from using it either accidentally/unconsciously (aka - spontaneously), or using it to emphasize a point I am trying to make. When you start dropping f-bombs like the conversation is an Iraqi war zone, you sound... well, like a teenager. And teenagers can sound preeeetty stupid. You do the math. Oh, and what's with the glaring, Oh Sulky of the Attitude Clan? When my only possible offense is breathing, I don't see how that earns you doing your best Mr. T impression at me from across the bus/room/store/city. Finally, I am way too old for your pimply, pubescent ass. If you really want a chick who digs much younger men, look up "Letourneau" in the phone book. Otherwise, show some respect.)

4. Keep. It. In. Your. Pants.
(Ignoring the fact that the Centers for Disease Control (CDC) reports that 19 million new STD infections occur every year... and nearly 50 percent of these new cases happen to young people between the ages of 15 and 24... and not only that, but the American Social Health Association (ASHA) reports that half of all new HIV infections occur in teenagers... well, no, wait; you can't ignore that. STOP GETTIN' FREAKY! It's, well, freaking us out. I won't be like some of your parents and tell you that sex is a dirty, gross thing that married couples "have to do", because that would promote its own set of problems, but what I will tell you is this: you only have so much time to be the age you're at right now. Why rush it?)

All-in-all, I'd say this was a very therapeutic letter. I was able to get things off my chest and, if you were to read this, you would (of course) take all of my suggestions to heart and magically transform yourself into the Upright, Non-Delinquent Youth of America that I know you have inside of you.

In all seriousness, you have so much potential. I am in awe of the talents that so many of you possess already at such a young age, and can't wait to see what kind of influence your voice has in the future.

Just... pull your pants up, okay? I don't want to see your boxers.

Get off my lawn,

Krystal

Bosses, Managers, Supervisors (Pt. 1)

Dear Bosses of the World,

Could you all step into my office for a minute? Thaaaaanks...

It has come to my attention, and the attention of thousands (plus or minus a few million) of other employees around the country, that you are getting really close to "intolerable". Whether it's your need to micromanage your staff, or your severely misplaced distrust of their capabilities, we are starting to notice a disturbing trend. We are confused. We are not pleased.

The last I checked, the following apply to you:
1. You get paid more than we do.
2. You (should have) more responsibility than your subordinates.
3. You agreed to abide by the same Employment Handbook that your employees did.
4. You should be a motivator to your employees, not a stumbling block.
5. You're human, like us. We hope.

I fail, then, to understand why your modus operandi is so different from ours. Is the exponentially higher pay scale that the company forks out for your "intellectual property" not a tidy enough sum for you? Are you out to prove that, yes, there is a "wrong side of the bed" and yes, you CAN wake up on it every single day?

However, since I am a hard working, committed, team-player of an employee, I have brainstormed a (brief) list of solutions.

1. Stop bitching about your salaries in order to be "on the same level" as your staff, unless you want us to mug you and take your "pitifully small" checkbooks.
(This is simple, Oh Commanders of the Cubicle, and will make for a happier team of workers who are less prone to key your Mercedes in the garage. Chances are, we know what you bring home on an annual basis... knowing you, you've probably blabbed about it on the phone to your significant other at a high volume so that we would just "happen" to hear the figure six or seven times. Are we supposed to be impressed, or feel sorry for you? When you try to commiserate with your employees over how little they are making in relation to their perceived worth and contributions, you don't come across as "one of the team" or "on the same level"... you come across as an "douche-waffle" who drives a freaking Mercedes SLR McLaren as your commuter vehicle.)

2. Stop delegating YOUR duties to your subordinates before we decide to rise up and eliminate your position altogether.
(See... this is the problem: Your employees already have enough on their plates without you cherry-picking your own tasks and dumping the rest of the steaming mass on their desks. Did you not get the memo about being replaceable?)

3. Stop bending the rules to fit your desires, unless you're also willing to grant an extra three weeks' vacation to everyone else.
(Whether you're playing FarmVille online, checking your stock purchases, or planning your next family trip to Disneyworld, chances are you're breaking the rules. We, your Employees of Inestimably Great Worth, don't care. We just want to be allowed the same privileges. What makes you all so special that you get to surf the web, file your toenails, or chat with your spouse while texting your side-action and we can't?)

4. Stop looking at, buying, displaying, and believing in those god-awful 'motivational posters' before we use them to cut you with... or start putting up our own.

(Is it really so hard to support your staff? Why else would you resort to posting a "Hang In There, Baby!" poster on your (perpetually closed) office door? Instead, try setting team goals, having a random 'pizza Friday' (which you pay for, not us), or even sending a quick "Thank you for making me look competent" email every once in a while. That instills a greater sense of workplace loyalty than that $3.99 poster ever could... and it isn't nearly as tacky or off-putting to our customers/visitors.)

5. Stop acting like you are infallible, or else we will stop supporting your delusions and you will find yourself naked in a world of hurt.
(Your WoW characters might be the most badass Rogue-Warlock-Mage-thingy ever, but you, Dear Incompetent Idiots in Charge, are not. You guys screw up the system more often than you facilitate progress, and even then make excuses for your lack of ability. The only reason we allow you to stay in power like we do is because we have no desire to lead for fear that your position is actually a curse, but that's a theory we're willing to test if you all don't slow down and listen to your workers. We're the ones in the trenches, carrying out your commands, meeting your objectives, and making your money. Listening to your breadwinners may be the smartest thing you've done since successfully emerging from the womb.)

All-in-all, I'd say this was a very therapeutic letter. I was able to get things off my chest and, if you were to read this, you would (of course) take all of my suggestions to heart and magically transform yourself into the Less Annoying A.S.S.H.O.L.E.s (Arrogant Supervisors Stressing Honest Over-worked Laborers Endlessly) that I know you have inside of you.

Sincerely, I know it takes a lot to run a company. Whether you are a manager of a chain store or a CEO of a corporation, a lot seems to rest on your shoulders with more being added every day. What I have said in this letter isn't (entirely) meant to bash you down (well... yeah, it is), but instead, to point you towards a better vision of Boss-Employee relations.

Now, stop peering down my shirt during staff meetings or I swear that I will staple your man-parts to your leg.

See you at the water cooler,

Krystal