a cranky letter

Dear Cashier,

Hello. If you see me at the grocery store dressed like a total yuppie square, trudging around with my shopping cart at 11:00 pm in 3 inch heels, clearly I did not dress like that just to go for a midnight snack and am actually stopping by on my way home from a realllllllly long work day. And if I couldn't wait till the next day to come, it means I had to buy something absolutely essential, like water or toilet paper, which means I really don't want to be there. So let that be a sign to you next time that I don't want to be asked questions about every single item I am purchasing like, "Oh, microwave dinner, huh? So you live alone and can't cook?" "Oh, People magazine, eh? What's Lindsey Lohan up to these days?" "Why the gum? No time to brush your teeth? Sometimes I don't brush in the morning and just grab some gum, haha." OH MY GOD.

- UB

cranky

I'm having a really cranky day, induced by sugar/flour withdrawal, continued inability to fit into clothes, really wet feet from the slush storm, impending conference insanity, and the fact that I keep missing classes. That means my head is racing with rash thoughts. For example, I finally dragged myself to Anal Meth 40 minutes late only to find some douchebag in my seat. Totally understandable, I guess, since it's empty half the time. But how do I really feel? I would like to strangle his scrawny little seat-stealing neck until his face explodes, all the while screaming, "THERE IS A FUCKING SEATING CHART, YOU SHITFACE, GET OUT OF MY CHAIR."

Maybe don't talk to me today. :D