Open Letter to the Cleaning Lady Who Gives Me Only a Blank Stare in Response to My Friendly Greetings
Look, bitch. I know you’re not deaf; I know you can speak. I hear you saying hello to other people in my office. So why not me? I keep my desk neat, I never make a mess in the kitchen, and I certainly don’t leave pubes on the toilet seat like some dainty flowers I work with (your open letter is next, Pubey McShed). Unless I am blacking out and taking a shit under my desk every afternoon, I am aware of nothing I do that could possibly merit your pissy silent treatment. I say hi; you say hi back. See? Easy! LIKE ME, DAMMIT!
Why can’t you be like Creepy Valet Parking Attendant downstairs? He left me his phone number in my cupholder once. Did my skin crawl for 3 weeks straight after that? Did I secretly suspect he had been smelling my seat cushions? Did he eventually get fired for doing the same thing to other women? Yes, yes, and yes. But at least he was polite. Jesus.
Entry filed under: Taste my Backhand.