A Week of Splendid Missives: Saturday

Dear People-who-have-seen-me-on-a-regular-basis-
over-the-past-three-years-and-still-regard-me-
as-though-I-am-the-new-serial-killer-on-the-block-
refusing-to-make-eye-contact-or-even-return-a-smile,

Um, I've checked it out in the mirror and my face is not the sideshow spectacular that your refusal to acknowledge it warrants. I will give you the fact that my hair can and will, on most occasions, tend towards the unruly... but this lack of hair product, trust me, is no threat to you... unless you are a hairstylist... in which case, it does not matter because you are dead to me. (Please refer to existing visual evidence from 1988)

So, suuuuuck it.

My face hurts from trying. And your hair is not even worth this mention.

Love,
The Aftermath Kitchen

P.S. On second thought, I will continue to smile and say hello to you... wholeheartedly banking on my fantasy that this will drive you speedily and directly to complete remorse... leaving you no other option but to admit to me that you have decided to relocate to Alaska... where you will not have to smile OR greet people because it is either too freaking cold or too freaking dark and... “I'm so very sorry that I was ranking General Douche to you... here...please take them... the keys and ownership to my three bedroom flat with hardwoods and awesome backyard... it's all yours... oh, and, uh... by the way, your hair-style is super cute.”