Letter of Cursing and Catharsis

It isn�t that I haven�t thought about your entertainment for the last several weeks. It�s that I�ve been spending a lot of quality time on the phone. With people I hate. Including that robotic woman on the 1-800-Wells Fargo phone line, whom I pay two dollars to speak to every time I feel like frustrating myself via the telephone instead of the Internet. And frankly, kids, I�ve hit a wall. I can�t be creative and amusing when I�m pissed. So I decided to do something cathartic: write a go-fuck-yourself letter to all of those lovely (impressively incompetent) people who have robbed me of my sarcastic yet good-natured outlook on my life and replaced it with stress on my heart, kidney stones, and neurotic breakdowns over the best way to remove unsightly facial hair.

Dear Wells Fargo, the institution where I have stored my pittance of a salary for over ten years: go fuck yourself. You, the creepy voice recording telling me to please listen to all of my choices before selecting �0� and bothering a real person with my insignificant financial concerns: I hate you. I hate you more with every press of the button, which always brings me one step further away from my goal and one step closer to another version of your lousy, grating, nasally voice. You�d think they would have paid someone with a soothing voice to record this madness, but no. Instead, I spend over two hours on the phone waiting for a real person to explain to me why Wells Fargo bounced a check for 80 measly bucks when I had a total of 900 dollars and 74 cents in my checking account.

[Aside: Thank you, the real woman who finally answered upon my twelfth pressing of the 0 button and corrected the problem. Also, thank you for apologizing on behalf of that company you work for, which is obviously run by the minions of Satan.]

Screw you, the woman I spoke with on the phone the following day, who informed me that the bank hadn�t made an error (technically) and let me know that the charges had been �corrected� only as a courtesy on the bank�s part. By the way, what the hell is that technically business? Did my money take a two-day vacation to Siberia?

To my ex-landlord, who is trying to steal my $850 deposit, go fuck yourself. I kept your stupid condominium in pristine condition so you could sell it (well, attempt to sell it for a price that would make a nun blush). I allowed your real estate agent to manhandle my personal belongings and quiz me on the value of my handbags (no stranger should ever fuck with a girl�s handbags) and I didn�t even threaten a lawsuit. The housing authority thinks you�re scum. I think you�re scum. Fuck you for calling me to explain the various ways you have been a reasonable and amazingly fair person.

Fuck the car insurance company that has billed me twice for the same bill and caused my final rent check to my ex-landlord to bounce. For attempting (albeit unsuccessfully) to not pay any fees associated with your crappy accounting system and stick it to the little guy (me): go play in the road. To the insurance woman who lied to me on the phone: bite me. That�s right, darling. Bite me. I�m going to get into twelve accidents and break at least three windshields this year just so you bastards have to pay out more than what I�ve paid you in the last two years. Screw your nonexistent good-driver rates and your umbrella policies that are only slightly worse than the bank�s insurance that promises to pay my brother $800 if I�m maimed in an accident. (The paper cuts aren�t that bad around this place anyway.) You�re a bunch of parasitic pricks and I�m taking you down�kiss my perfect driving record goodbye.

To my new neighbor who likes to play really bad guitar at 1:00 a.m. and wanders around our community area while wearing her cell phone headset and screaming at the top of her lungs about how Jim is a raging asshole and he�s not as good of a bartender as he used to be: Please, don�t wear your seatbelt. And don�t vote, either. Please, god, don�t rock the vote.

To my roommate who decides to get drunk and pee all over the bathroom floor around the toilet instead of in the damn thing: Fuck you. Fuck you and your naps at 2:00 every afternoon while I�m at work. And stick your theory that you work harder at cooking pasta for a living than I do working on manuscripts. No one likes pasta in August, so there. That bathroom floor had better see a Swiffer and a lot of bleach by the time I get home.

Whew. I feel better already. I�m sorry I had to put you through that. If you want to file a complaint, press 0.