I have blogging performance anxiety. I don’t know what to write about after my extended and inexcusable absence.
So, I will do what I seem to do best…..write rants. I have recently adopted the habit of saying, ‘Dear xxxxx’, then listing what I hate about them, then ending with ‘Luuuuuuuv, Talea’. Sometimes, I come out with some pretty good ones, I’m not going to lie. In the spirit of that, I will ease myself back into blogging by returning to the familiar…….Angry Talea.
Dear Particular Client Who Shall Remain Unnamed, So I Don’t Lose My Job:
Please understand that I do not wake up each morning and think to myself, ‘Gee, how can I go about fucking up Xxxxx’s life, so that they will yell and curse at me, accusing me of things I didn’t do. Hmmmmm.’ You don’t seem to realize this. I hate you. Please stop yelling at me for doing my job. Luv, Talea.
Dear Shopper’s Drug Mart:
Damn you! Damn you all to hell! Damn your marketing people and the people who design your stores and all of your retail psychologists. I routinely walk in to pick up one thing. I routinely walk out $50-$80 poorer. I have like, 4 bottles of shampoo right now. Why? Because I CAN’T SAY NO TO YOU! The way you display things, and light them, and offer me free points and have rotating sales on everything I don’t need! Dammit!
Dear Guy Who Took That Plane Hostage in Jamaica Yesterday:
Um, first off, I hope you get what’s coming to you. Second, your timing was very poor. I was in fact ON A PLANE, 35,000 feet above the ground where I was absent mindedly surfing through the channels on my wee personal TV, when I saw two stations covering your little debacle. For a person with a serious flying phobia, this was NOT cool. I about shit my pants, imagining that I was next. Seriously. Not cool.
I’m back. I promise. Yeah, I know….that wasn’t a rant. But what the hell right? It’s my blog and I’ll post conveniently cropped pictures of my Vin if I want to.
Dear Right Armpit:
What the hell-ass? Why are you so itchy lately? I can’t be going around, itching my armpits without drawing comparisons to a monkey and providing people with amusing mental images that I’d rather not inspire. Please stop it.
Dear Sweaty McSweaterson:
Dude, I know we’re at the gym. I get it, we’re supposed to sweat. But when the back of your shirt looks like you went through your neighbour’s Slip and Slide on your back, you need to see someone about that shit. Really. They have meds for that. I’m sure your cardiologist would be very proud, but I don’t want to look at that. It’s 2009….no excuses, take care of your embarassing medical ailments.
Your service sucks and your inability to read my emails stating my desire to cancel service is unbelievable. Also, go ahead, keep charging my credit card. I’ll keep reversing it. And by the way, suck my balls.
It was Sunday afternoon, 3 PM. So why the hell did we have to go to three restaurants to find one that was open? You call yourself a city? You won’t even serve me nachos! Boo to you, Ottawa. Boo. To. You.
Dear Hostesses at Restaurants Lately:
When I come into your establishment with my chosen dining partner/s, it is your job as a hostess to greet me and welcome me. You all seem to have that down pat. Until recently, you would follow it up by doing some quick math in your head, then stating the number of my party participants and repeating it back to me in a question. As in, ‘For two?’ This was to ensure you seated us at a table with the appropriate number of seats in order for us to dine comfortably, and to confirm that we weren’t expecting other attendants. It was a good system. It worked.
Recently though, you all seem to be forgetting this. You say hello. Then…silence. I am obviously there to eat. Do not stare at me and expect me to tell you what I’m there for. I’m not the one at work. Please do your job. Thanks.
Please come up with some blogging ideas soon. This post sort of sucks. Thanks.