To Whom This May Concern

And so it happened. The entire world collectively got together and decided that this was the day to piss me off. I can take a lot. I can. Really. Don't make that face, I really can. But I have this temper you see, it's monumental. For the most part, I can keep it in check, but when I have trigger after trigger after trigger firing at me... well, I tend to lose it. It's an extraordinary explosion, too. It's kind of like a Hannibal-Lector-I-would-rather-bite-your-ear-off-than-back-down-from-this-argument type of explosion. Not that I've ever bitten an ear off. Okay, a lip once, but that was totally by accident. No, it was not my own lip. Woops.

So having read all that, you should understand that there's a lot I need to get out. I need to just have my exlposion and be done with it. Pardon my french, while we're at it, because it's about to get uh ga lay up in here.

To my boss' boss, who just can't seem to understand that it's near impossible for me to do my own job when I'm kind of in the middle of fucking DOING EVERYONE ELSE'S: You are complete and inept fool. One that I would just love to pull through the building by the hair, so you can see what true stress is. P.S. You're a bitch.

To the posers that think that since they ride a bike on the weekend, they are hardcore: You haven't met hardcore until you've met me in a dark alley about two days into PMS. Fuck off, pussies and let me give you a clue. There are all types of bikers. But you're not hardcore if 90% of your time is spent in a suit. Fucking peacocks that need a bike to feed their ego. You want something to be proud of? Come down from Chicago and try to get through an argument with me without huddling into the fetal position while sobbing uncontrollably. Now THAT would be an accomplishment.

To the salon lady that did not listen to a damn word I said: You know, I lost about twelve inches of hair. Would it have KILLED you to believe me when I said I have a LOT of hair? Would it have killed you to thin the back layers of my hair, you know, the part where it's the thickest? I was so tempted to go back and slam your face into that big salon mirror you so love gazing into, but after a little thought and some leave-in conditioner, I've decided I kind of like my new cut, so you're off the hook. Barely.

To the people that made the remake of Hairspray: How many fucking Hairsprays do we need?! We got it the first time with Ricki Lake. And really, John Travolta!? You douchebags, now I'll HAVE to see it. If only to make fun of Travolta in a dress.

To the lady that cannot drive: It's a stop sign, BECAUSE YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO STOP, BITCH!!!!!!!! You're lucky I have great brakes, or I swear you'd have paid through the nose for any damage done to my car. And then, I'd have probably would've laid your ass out on the ground, just because you made me swerve. Do society a favor and take the damn bus, before you kill someone. Namely, me.

To iTunes: No, I don't want to install the latest update every two fucking minutes, so stop giving me that damn pop-up while I'm trying to write a blog entry, or I will hurl this monitor across the room and then physically track down Jobs and make him pay for it!!!!

To my next victim: I've now got a short-circuit of about two seconds and a helluva powerful kick, so either get the fuck out of my way or go buy some insurance, because trust me, you're gonna need it.