People Leaving Voicemails to Let Me Know They Called

Dear voice mail abusers,

Voice mail should be used for only the most serious reasons: You don't want to be the one to tell me it's malignant, you are rattling off the first fifty digits of Pi or you just met Incubus and they're recording "Wish you were here" with the name "Kirsten" in place of "you." All reasonable to be recorded.

However, if I get one more voice mail message saying "Hey, Kirsten, just wanted to let you know I called, call me back!" I might start wearing diet coke cans in my hair like Lady Gaga. It drives me THAT crazy. If I have your number and I've seen the "missed call" icon, I understand that you indeed called and I should indeed call you back. INDEED. Stop wasting my time having to go check my voicemail and repeatedly push "7" to delete your waste of two minutes of my life.

I didn't want to call anyone out, but Mom, this has got to stop. I will call you back at my earliest convenience to discuss how many hours of sleep I got and if I'm getting enough protein in my diet. I promise.

BUT I STILL LOVE YOU.

Love,

Kirsten

Nickelback

Dear Canada,

I can handle Alanis Morissette's angry Canadian bitch rock. I can handle Celine Dion (the greatest singer in zee world.) I even have a soft spot for Justin Bieber's oversexed Kid's Bop thing he has going on (in a non child-molester way.) But what on earth did the USA do to deserve Chad Kroeger's Jesus mullet and 50+ different versions of the same audio vomit he likes to call "songs?"

Are you guys still pissed about the 1980 Olympics hockey thing? NEWS FLASH: You won this year.

When I turn on the radio to find the soul crushing screaming of Chad (which, if you allow me to get imaginative with my similes, sounds like he has a small animal wrapped in sandpaper lodged in his throat but chooses to shout over it,) at best a piece of my soul dies and at worst, I'm not in control of radio and have to punch myself in the face to numb the pain until it ends.

BLAME CANADA.

Love,

Kirsten

Wet Socks

Dear wet socks,

Nothing makes me want to punch kittens in their little kitten faces (too graphic?) than a pair of saturated socks. Living in Arizona, this isn't usually a problem. However, thanks to my one mile uphill hike from the light rail station to the business school during today's freak hurricane (comparable to how your grandpa got to school, I'm sure,) I got to listen to the *squish* *squish* *squish* of my damp ass socks for the rest of the day. (On a side note, I say damp because another thing I cannot handle is the word moist...gross... but I'll save that for another entry.) Anyway, I cannot handle you. I can handle looking like a wet dog with wet hair stuck to my face for the rest of my day, but not you.

SEE YOU AGAIN IN 360 DAYS, WET SOCKS. BRING ON THE SUNSHINE.

love, kirsten

Old Ladies Exercising in Form Fitting Clothing

Dear Old Lady Doing Group Fitness Classes in Form Fitting Clothing,

GROSS.

Look, I get it, you're hotter than most grandmas. You go to the SRC and join all of us 20-somethings to show us "you've still got it" and you're sure if Sinatra was still alive, he'd want to whip you up some moonshine and take you on the town. Don't get me wrong, you're a hot old lady and I hope someday to be a hot old lady too. But please refrain from shaking your old lady junk in a spandex tube top and matching booty shorts, it's just distracting.

But please continue watching the Golden Girls and baking your grand kids yum yums... I CAN handle that.
Love, Kirsten

Lazy Ass Elevator Riders

Dear Lazy Ass Elevator Rider,

Having to go up one floor does not rationalize taking the elevator. Honestly, it takes you more time to wait for it and piss me off when I have to make an extra stop on my legitimate five floor ascent than it would to help eradicate the obesity epidemic and burn a good five calories. Gawd forbid you participate in any sort of physical activity when you can just crowd into a small box with strangers and make them feel awkward for an extra minute.

YOU SUCK.

Love, Kirsten