Dear ZDub

I have to confess. I am not fancy. I just LOOK fancy. Much like a poxed hooker.

My Blackberry is paid for by my work. My Starbucks mug was a bonus when I bought gift cards for a party last year. I was in line at QT for coffee. I bought those jeans at Goodwill for $1 and my sweater was a hand-me-up that M got from...somewhere. My Victoria's Secret panties were free with the coupon they send me every month and I bought the bra at the semi-annual sale. The headband was a spare bridesmaid gift from a wedding I officiated. I bought the Frye boots on eBay for about 40% of retail and my Coach bag came from the outlet. My big old truck is fifteen years old and hasn't been washed since I bought it.

Can we be friends again?

Luvyourbitchcuttingguts,

Kiki

Oh Dear

Dear Moms,

Hi. I know that you have a lot going on. I get that kids are a big, snotty, whiny time suck. But I promise you that you DO have time for yourself if you would just take the time to find it. Blaming your kids for why you've let yourself go is bullshit. How do you think your kids will feel knowing that they made mommy bitchy AND ugly?

SephoraHugsandCalgonKisses,

K

Dear Phoenix Drivers,

You're dumbasses. I drive a large, loud, WHITE truck. If you weren't using both hands to fucking TEXT you probably would be able to not run into me. Just saying. Oh, and another thing. Maybe instead of buying stupid looking spinners for your 1986 Ford Fiesta you could spring for some working turn signals?

Suckmychrome,

Kiki

Dear Old Navy,

Can you PLEASE make up your mind as to how things will be sized? I HATE having to try on every single thing I buy. Especially when said things are simply different colors of the same item. They are the SAME ITEM they should be consistently sized. You're fucking KILLING ME HERE.

BlueandPinkStippedSmooches,

Kiki

Dear QT,

Thanks for making delicious coffee you assheads. Now I will never make it to work on time since I have to stop every morning for my fix. Could you like, I don't know, raise the price or something? If it wasn't $1.29 for 24 delicious, caffeinated ounces I probably wouldn't stop.

Bouncily yours,

Kikkkkkkkiiiiiii

Dear Fat People,

Stop being such babies. You're fat. Yay for you. Either accept it or change it. You've got the power. But getting on TV and whining and crying about how it's not fair is bullshit. I know you didn't CHOOSE to be like that, but you can choose to change it. Is it hard? Yes. Does it sometimes suck? Yes. Does it seem like it's impossible? Yes. But can you DO it? YES YOU CAN. Also? Being fat is not an excuse not to attend to personal hygiene. They have butt-wiping stick, into which you can clamp toilet paper and then reach over your shoulder to wipe you stanky ass. I'm not even making that up. You're giving all the rest of us fatties a bad name and I don't appreciate it.

Frommyfatasstoyours,

KikiChubbikins

Dear My Boobs,

I miss you.

Dejectedandflatchestedly,

me

Dear ShitMonkey who out bid me in the last 30 seconds of the eBay auction,

You know who else does this? People who kill and eat kittens, that's who. Do you hate kittens? Are you TRYING to make the Baby Jesus cry? Will that make you happy? WILL IT? I hope your ill-gotten boots give you a big juicy blister and then your feet rot and fall off.

Stumpit,

K

Dear Levi

My Darling,

It took me years to find you. Now, we've been together so long I've lost track of the time. Never has been there been a day when we are together that you didn't make be feel beautiful. You held me so tightly, get gently that through the years it's as though we became one. It's like we were meant to be together; fated even.

And yet, today, I must let you go. It's as though you don't know me at all anymore. It's as though we've grown apart. Or perhaps shrunk away from each other.

So, this one last time as I hold you close to me, warm from the sun, your touch so familiar to me as I smooth my hand down your legs and across your ass, before I kiss you goodbye, I want you to know, you've been the best pair of jeans ever.

All of my heart,

Thystle

Confidential to BJ is Dallas

Hey Sistah-girl!

Today is your LUCKY DAY. I'm serious. You know how you're having a hard time finding a quality guy? Someone who shares your interests and likes long walks on the beach, glasses of wine and guacamole?

Well, let me just say You're Welcome in advance, because your Thystle has been looking out for you. Because that's the kind of girl I am. All thoughtful and shit.

Now, before I tell you about how he just got a promotion (to fry cook!) and how he's probably going to move out of his moms house "real soon" and before I even TOUCH on the fact that he likes quiet evenings at home (watching Battlestar Galactica reruns) I want you to see his picture. Because OMG, girl, can I just say, YUM? I know how you like them homeless looking....

I KNOW, right? Delish.

Loveurnolongersingleguts,

Thystlekins

PS. I WOULD be honored to perform the wedding, thanks for asking!

Potty Time? Excellent!

Dear Boys In My Office,

Hi! It's me, Thystle. You know, the only one with the boobs? Right, that one.

There's a little matter that's been bugging me and I think it's time that we had a little chat. You see, there are differences between boys and girls. Lots of them. Chiefly about the underpants area. That little difference, oh yes, I said LITTLE, means that you are meant to use the restroom labeled "Main Drain"

and I am to use the one that says "Ladies".

Now, it's fair, I suppose, to argue that my liberal use of the word Fuck should preclude me from being considered a lady. But no matter how valid your argument against my being a lady I still have a hoo-ha and that means I sit to pee and you waggle your ding-dong around like a fire house and spray pee in places that it should never be. Like the floor

and the wall. Seriously. The wall? WTF? What the hell were you doing? Did you learn nothing from Ghost Busters? Never cross streams! Are you having some kind of peeing Olympics where you must do the hundred yard spray or maybe the long tinkle? What exactly is it about being at work that makes you forget everything your momma taught you about aiming at the bowl?

This didn't use to be an issue as many moons ago when the economy was sound we had someone to clean up these messes. You could write your name in the tile, piss in the sink, wipe your boogers on the counter, it mattered not to me. However, these days, I clean my own bathroom and no one cleans yours.

Why? Because I'm not your damn wife that's why. And if I was your wife, you sure as hell would learn to light a mother fucking match when you drop something that smells like goat afterbirth. What the fuck are you eating anyway? Sheep balls? Dung? What? Never mind, don't answer that. We've got more important things to discuss.

I'll take into consideration that you're all gentle refined souls



I understand why a gross men's room might drive you to desperation. This desperation is known as "taking a poo in the flowery confines of the ladies room".




This is, on the whole, acceptable. After all, I'm a liberal kind of girl. I share. I let you borrow pens, postage stamps, lunch money and even socks. I'm a team player like that. Sometimes. As such, I'm willing to allow you to use my bathroom. Provided you follow these helpful guidelines. I've made them pictures, so that you can't claim you don't understand my high-falutin words like "flushthemuthafuckincan" and "orimabeatyoassifyouleavetherollempty"









Pretty simple, right? I've even gone one step further and made suggestions to management regarding improving your bathroom so that it's more attractive to you! So that you'll WANT to be in there when you pee



or poop



Nice, right? See I do have your comfort at heart.

However, money is a bit tight and we might have to make do with what we've got for a bit longer. So, just a word to the wise, if I have to wonder what that liquid on the floor is one more time, I'm going to start making the coffee with toilet water. Just saying.

Professionally yours,

Thystle