Thursday, July 12, 2012

Open Letter to People Who Need To Fuck Off

People seem to like these, and I like writing them so here goes.

To the landscapers mowing my neighbor's lawn with that really loud lawn mower:
Where the fuck do you think we are, the suburbs? Hold it the hell down, will you? Yeah, I know you're underpaid and have to get on to the next client, but that lawn is so small that you could use a push mower and not break a sweat. If it's barely big enough to hide a body in, it doesn't require a power mower.

To the guy who uses a leaf blower to clean the sidewalk in front of my apartment building:
Dude, the guy at the building next door uses a broom. I've seen him. The bricks on the outside of our building are visibly blushing in embarrassment. And could you take down the huge Christmas decoration in the lobby? Could this year be the one when all of last year's decorations come down before it's time to put up this year's? Please?

To my health insurance company:
In your infinite lack of wisdom, you have decided that I'm only allowed 8 migraine rescue pills a month. Even though my doctor prescribed more. Even though they come in a package of 9, so my pharmacist has to open the package, rip one segment off of the sheet and set it aside for the next poor slob. You do realize that I have more than 8 migraines a month, right? More than 9 even? You know this because of al the documentation I had to send you about my 15 migraine days a month that qualified me for you to pay for the Botox that did nothing. And one migraine may require more than 1 pill--it says so on the package. But I don't even always take the first pill because I have to make them last and I have to judge if THIS migraine is bad enough to merit a magic pill before it's even really gotten going because by then it's too late.

So I guess on those other days, I can go fuck myself? Oh, but I can't. Because I have a massive headache. Assholes.

And this shit is generic. It's like $1.50 a pill. And why do you get to decide how much I get anyway? I can see you making a policy that says you're only going to pay for 8 pills a month, but why do you get to say that I can't pay the big extra buck fifty for that ninth pill if I want to?

You do realize that I might not have even tried the expensive Botox if you had just let me have more rescue pills, right? But heaven forfend we be cost effective.

To my upstairs neighbor:
Whatever the hell that is, turn it the fuck down. The rest of us who are home during the day are trying to work. Oh, and I heard you screaming at your wife at 1 am a couple of months ago loud and clear. Since you asserted quite loudly that you didn't care that the whole neighborhood could hear, I have been quite tempted to share you words with the world. You did not come across well at all. If only I were on more social terms with the rest of the building's residents, we could start a betting pool on when she's going to leave you and take the kid (or, even better, kick you out on your selfish, entitled ass).

Also, I'm trying to figure out how baby in the apartment = loud TV in the middle of the afternoon blaring action movies and definitely not children's programming. I did have a traumatic calculus experience in college, so my math skills are not what they once were. Perhaps you could explain it to me.

To the roaches in my apartment:
Dudes, what the fuck? It was bad enough when you started to make inroads into the bathroom. But the living room? Who the fuck invited you in there? Get your crawly little asses back into the kitchen and then back outa my apartment tout de suite, or I will reinstate the bug whacker, a rolled-up magazine wrapped in duct tape. Hot pink duct tape. If you thought your departed brethren suffered when I sprayed vinegar on them, just wait until crush you little motherfuckers.

Goddammit. what is this city coming to?

1 comment:

  1. I love you, I love you, I love you. You manged to capture exactly how I feel most of the time. Can I copy you and start an open letter blog myself? Thank you.



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