Dear The Old Lady Who Works At The Starbucks In My Target,
When I am greeted by my harried looking husband upon leaving the bathroom with my 5 year old (who loudly chronicled every step of the descent of his poop from his colon to the toilet) with my large green tea latte, and the curt instructions to ‘Taste this. NOW’ it is a very.bad.sign.
How you ruined something that is made entirely from a mix, I am not sure, but how you ruined it 3 times baffles me. Finally, I just asked “make me a large steamed skim with almond syrup,” which is surely a sign that you are not in the right line of work. Because I *still* walked away with a small skim with whole milk.
By this time, I had surmised that you were probably not worth my time and if I tried a fourth time, I’d probably end up with a cheeseburger. Although it is still painful for me to admit, I walked away from the entire situation without getting a refund for my $1.80.
Still Wantin’ My Latte,
The Largely Pregnant Woman Flanked By Eye-Rolling Men
P.S. My husband is still not sure what you did to his drink.
Dear Outlet Mall Lotion Kiosk Guy,
Do I look like I am desperately in need of your product? Is my skin falling off my body in large discernible chunks, littering the mall floor with its’ fleshy badness? If the answer is no (and last I checked, it was), then when I say ‘No‘ to your inquiry if I have a minute to hear about your product while I walk briskly away from your stand, let.it.the.fuck.go.
Don’t follow me well past your stand, eagerly proffering your lotion bottle as it were a hard penis in dire need of a hand-i-job while repeating yourself over and over, pleading with me to try your product. I promise, even *I* know that your six dollar product is not worth it.
And if you choose to do these things to me, as your type inevitably does (am I a product of racial SES profiling?) DO NOT do these things around my usually-even-tempered-husband. Because he scream loudly at you while threatening you with bodily harm. Which he will then be forced to listen to his wife imitate for weeks (ahem, YEARS) to come, while wiping tears of laughter from her eyes.
Back The Fuck Off, Motherfucker’s Wife
P.S. Your product sucks and you work in a mall kiosk. An OUTLET mall kiosk. I personally, am just glad that I am not you.
Dear Rapidly Growing Belly,
About 4 months ago, we had a great agreement. You wouldn’t impede my movements too much, and I would feed you McDonald’s Carmel Sundaes when you asked. Life (aside from the hyperemesis, of course) was good. I looked cute, felt cute, and got to rub my cute little belly.
All bets are off now, motherfucker.
I’m lucky if my biggest shirts fit over you now. Shopping for more shirts has proven time and again to be a losing battle, not to mention depressing as f.c.u.k. Yesterday, I burned you on the freezing car. Today I burned you on the hot stove. My mind cannot compute your ample dimensions any longer. While attempting to hug my first son, I steamrolled him to the ground AND IT TOOK ME A MINUTE TO REALIZE WHY HE HAD FALLEN.
On the bright side, I am glad that it wasn’t a seizure like I had initially thought.
Sleeping has turned into a horrible battle of me vs. my burgeoning belly. I grunt when I roll over or move from sitting to standing or pretty much whenever.
Sex has gone from a pleasurable (and how!!!) pastime to an act of mercy on the part of my husband. Mounting and dismounting leave me feeling about as sexual as a goat in tap shoes and the walk of shame to the bathroom has turned into a slow waddle.
Since I no longer feel as though you have upheld your end of the bargain here, I am forced to renig on my own. No more Carmel Sundaes for you until you can show me what I’m getting out of this.
The Only One Of Us Who Has Access To Both A Car And A Wallet
P.S. If you see Cletus the Fetus, please inform him that my bladder is NOT a toy!