I’m sorry your stomach seems to be distressed due to your recent move back down to Memphis. And I’m VERY sorry I have an intimate knowledge of what your butthole looks like, due to having to make sure it was just red and not, in fact, bleeding. I’m sorry, as well, that I had to hold you down by basically sitting on your head in order to inspect and express your anal glands.
I am not, however, sorry that I farted while doing so. Nor am I sorry that I laughed, prolonging what must have been a miserable experience for you. I’d call us even on that score, given what I was doing.
I’m very happy that you’re de-clawed, and that you seem to have forgiven me, as you are sitting next to me as I write this, purring while licking your paws in a very crazy, post-traumatic way.
I do love having you here, and you’ve improved my mood in a noticeable way, but I felt the need to get that little tidbit out. Because it was gross.
P.S. – Yes, please lick your butt. More often, in fact, so that I don’t EVER have to do that again, because my nausea button has definitely been pushed.
Dear [company name redacted],
I do not appreciate being called out for an interview at 10am, being led to believe that I would be actually speaking with someone about a potential position, and then showing up only to be told to fill out an application (in a room with several other women), and then dismissed after being talked to as if I am insane for not wanting to put my social security number on application forms.
You said you’d go over my information and give me a call, but given that you basically accused me of being a criminal (because, clearly, that’s the only reason I wouldn’t want my SSN on a form that’s going to be passed around an office), I’m not expecting to hear from you any time soon. That’s a real shame, too, because despite the lower pay, the job you’re offering is something I would love to do.
If I’m not contacted (and apologized to for my treatment), it’s your loss.
The Only White Chick in the Building
Dear Professor of my Online Course,
The things I would like to say to you would be completely inappropriate, given that you are merely seeing what the website shows you, but I am not, in point of fact, lying about having a giant ball of pus cut out of my armpit, being treated for MRSA, or undergoing anti-fungal treatment. I’m not asking for pity grades. I’m asking for an extension. Stop being a smartass.
Please see enclosed satellite image of my doctor’s office under water during the flood (hence the reason why I didn’t run right out and get that note for you), as well as the photos of my armpit in various stages of healing from the MRSA infection. I’d show you the effects of the medication for the MRSA and yeast, but it’s generally frowned upon to send photos of fecal matter to your teachers.
All the best in your future endeavors,
That One Student Who is Apparently a Giant Pain in Your Ass
I’m sorry I had the left, rear window cracked open when it rained, but that was no excuse for your door to eat it.
Did you know that it’s going to cost me over $500 to fix that shit? And that I really don’t have that money? Hell, I can’t even afford to go to the doctor to continue the treatment that I actually need pretty desperately. I don’t have a job, but I need a car that’s not easily-broken-into in order to go to one, not to mention to go to interviews and such.
You’ve made me cry more than anything else this past week. What with me being on my period and all, that’s a huge accomplishment, so congratulations, you fuck.
I’m seriously so pissed that I have nothing else that’s even remotely coherent to say about this.
Fuck off and die. Then fall out. Please. I’m begging you. I’ll even give you a proper funeral.
I Wish I Was Born a Man
Soo…it appears that we’re at an impasse. You won’t respond to painkillers so that I can move around and help you stop being so stiff all the time. And I can’t take any more painkillers than I already am because of my liver and kidneys.
So, seriously. What’s the deal? What am I supposed to do? You have to give me some sort of indication. You can’t hurt during EVERY thing that I do. There’s got to be some middle ground. Can we find it?
I am SO SORRY. PLEASE stop hurting. PLEASE stop making that rash on my stomach. You’re scaring me. A lot. I don’t even drink alcohol…can you cut me a break? I’ve stopped taking as much of my medication, and have even stopped taking a few meds full-stop in an effort to help. You should be getting better, not worse. What’s the deal? I wish you could talk. Shoot me a text message? Something? Anything?
I’m trying. That’s all I can say.
Drowning in Piss
I might blame suicide on Lyme, but you know you’d be the real culprit if I ever decided to go that route. I just wanted to be sure we were clear on that.
In Life and in Death
I have no plans to commit suicide.
I am, however, fucking terrified, and tired of pretending to be positive and have a good attitude about my life as of these past two years.
I’m saving something for the next post that has been hidden by my recent attempts to make this blog more friendly to a wider audience. These things don’t need to be hidden, at all, for any reason. To do so is to protect the person who made it his mission to destroy me.
And I’m pretty much done writing letters for the night.