“Don’t be so lazy and park your car in the lot like you should. People live hear and shouldn’t have to park down the street because of your lazyness.”
I’m not quite so sure if they understood the irony of calling me lazy when they are stressing about having to make a half block “trek” but at least they got the correct form of “your”. Otherwise it would just be too much and I would have to Joey Fatone them with a good old “cut-it-out” (hand motions and all).
To Whom it May Concern (with the yellow pad of paper and oddly half capitalized writing particularly in places that it doesn’t make sense to capitalize):
You are correct. I am the worst.
You know what else is the worst? Carrying 6 boxes of donated books or food or what have you from my car to the school. Let’s get real. It would be the worst even if I parked INSIDE my classroom, so I get as close to the door as I can. But I’m pretty sure that NOT delivering the 6 boxes of donated books or food or what have you would the ultimate worst.
I’ve been working on not being so lazy. I’ve recently taken to getting up out of bed in the morning just 8 hours after I made it back to my house. (Not that when I actually get home I’m really done working because what educator ever is?) Truly, this behavior a reflection of my incessant laziness and I promise to seek counseling. Also, thanks to your prompting, I’ve checked and my second 12 hour day this week, is in fact directly correlated to how remiss I am. Don’t worry though, it’s only Tuesday so there is plenty of more time in the week for my absurd slug-idity to continue.
I’m waiting for a judge’s ruling, but I would guess that the three bikes that I carried up from a basement, into my car, and then into the school from my car in order to donate them to children in need is ALSO practically comatose. I will avoid doing such things in the future and will instead just park in the lot where my kind belong.
In case you missed my sarcasm like the “y to ie” lesson you clearly skipped in grade school, I’ll sum it up for you.
I parked in your spot.
I geeeeeet it.
Except that I don’t.
Only once in my entire year as Circus Master (let’s just say that’s what I do for privacy’s sake and because it’s basically true) have I found it difficult to park within reasonable heavy load carrying distance of the building. Was I grumpy about it the one time I was parking in the outfield? Probably. But did I litter the neighborhood with my PTSD feelings about the whole thing?
Not even the once.
I wish nothing but blocks and blocks of walking upon you.
Nay, I wish a mouthful of cinnamon upon you,
Ms. Hatchback Ruining Your Life
NOTE: I clearly won’t ever send this letter. I even have reservations about posting it because I really hate confrontation and sometimes I’m scared that I am going to get punched. That’s my own personal insecurity, sure, but one time a 4th grader punched me right in the face when I told him to go into the hall. Shit gets real sometimes and I’m not about to test it.
If I were The Incredible Hulk, or Iron Man or Shrek or something more intimidating than me, I definitely, probably, maybe would like to send it.
I would also like to go door to door down that stretch of street and find the angry mean letter sniper and bop him/her on the nose.
I would like to hand deliver all of this blogity nonsense to Anoymous Yellow Paper Person (hence-forth referred to as AYPP), but I won’t. And I’m guessing, after my normal 3-5 hours of sleep, that I’ll feel more like giving this person a “Come to Jesus” talk than ding dong ditching them.
But right now I’m angry, flabbergasted and getting splotchy because really. Who DOES that?
Who decides, “Yes. This is the thing I need to do to make myself feel better and make everyone in or around my living space, feel like dried up Gak.” [remember Gak? It was always crusting up.]
As we’ve discovered, AYPP does that and I’m sure many others out in the world-o-sphere do too.
So now I will climb onto a soap box, or maybe even perhaps a box of donated food and ask you to clap once if you can hear me.
–Friends, Romans, Countrymen…lend me your ears for, oh, 22 lines or so. I don’t have poetry to share like Bill Shakespeare, but I’m gonna need you to pay me all of your attentions immediately (cash or credit). Why ya gotta be so mean? Please stop. Please stop, drop and roll if you have to. Just put that fire out within you. Nobody’s trying to burn your life down. Ain’t nobody got time for that**. I had a horribly long day, with 7-53 things that went wrong and/or included an enormous amount of physical labor. I didn’t need to come out to my car (on teacher appreciation day no less) to a note berating me and/or my willingness to move my hind end. I’ve been moving my hind end all day. And I’m hurried and rushed and out of time. I’m like the white rabbit, 24/7, if the white rabbit hadn’t had the chance to pee in 8 hours, had kid’s snot all over his shirt, was beginning to hate the sound of his own name and was constantly answering your questions with a higher order thinking question.
Now, to be fair, maybe you’re hurried and rushed and out of time too. In which case, take a letter Maria. Address it to my life. Say you don’t like coming home, to my car and all that strife. But for the love of all that yo mama taught you, use a please and a thank you. It will get you farther than you ever imagined (or in this case, closer – to your house that is).
In conclusion, I have two things to say.
1) Karma will most assuredly tell you, Sir or Madam AYPP, where to shove it
and 2) In the words of Sweet Brown**: Ain’t Nobody Got Time for That
(Huge thanks to R.B. Greaves for the inspiration about taking letters, Maria)