Dear John Letters #6

Despite the fact that I was given major kudos from the bosses today, I still had to work late after already cutting down my lunch. And despite being able to ride down the 10 freeway in 5th gear once leaving downtown proper, it still took an hour to get home. Also, I've felt like my body is fighting a losing battle against some nasty little bug for the last few weeks. So you know what that means:

I'm cranky. And for extra shits & giggles, PMSing! Therefore you get these:

Dear Crazy-Ass SUV Driver:

While I admire your balls in driving over an embankment to cross 4 lanes only to hit a the parking lot that was the Vermont Ave exit, you are the very reason it took me 30 minutes to get from 2nd and Fig downtown to the Western Ave exit. Which, according to Yahoo! Maps, is only 4.9 miles away and should have only taken 6 minutes. Clearly, Yahoo! Maps is on crack because it never takes a mere 6 minutes, but you weren't helping the situation.

Your big balls belong to an asshole. Also, you look like a lemur. Bitch.

***

Dear Coworkers Who Lack Any Semblance of Decorum:

It is my honest belief that what you do on your own time is none of my business. But if you’re having an affair with each other, you're not very smart, but again, not my place. However, if you do insist on carrying on like this, at least try to have a little bit of class. Don’t grab each other inappropriately, don’t wrestle in your office, and please please please don’t argue over your personal shit where the rest of us can hear you.

This is especially true if you’re both married. To other people. With children. And we all know it.

I really don't ever want to walk in on your shit again, okay? Thanks!

***

Dear Woman Who Isn't My Mother:

We are not friends. We are never going to be friends. I am indeed friends with my mother, but she birthed me 28.5 years ago so she automatically gets that privilege. You, on the other hand, are a weird, unwelcome, bloated, poor female imitation of Chris Farley who I wouldn't come to for advice about my love life if you were the last hermaphrodite on earth. I don't need your bitterness towards rocker boys clouding my crystal clear judgement. I'm a grown adult and will date--and fuck--whomever I damn well please.

It's sad that you are disgustingly past your prime, but that's not my problem. Don't get in the middle of my shit again. You weren't invited to this party, stop trying to bribe your way in.

***

Dear Middle-American Wannabes,

Los Angeles is closed. We have no more acting/modeling/musician jobs left to offer. Therefore, we have no need for your restaurant services. Please stop clogging up our highway system, overcrowding our vanishing plots of open land, and savagely whoring yourselves out to an industry that doesn't want you anyway.

We've got enough problems with our illegal immigrants, but at least they contribute by getting our produce to market cheaply and on time. So unless you're here to pick tomatoes, get your asses back from whatever hicktown spit you out. Once we clear all you useless jackholes out, then maybe I'll be able to buy a house in my own hometown.

***

Dear Pretentious East Coast Indie Rag,

Don't advertise that "editors and experts" will be on hand to cull genius from the local talent when all you have to offer are bored underaged interns that couldn't care less about the amazing bodies of work being presented to them. A velvet rope and an RV parked in front of an abandoned Hollywood storefront aren't fooling anyone. You're piss poor amateurs, on par with the phonies who ran the obnoxious 6 Degrees Art Festival last summer. I had the unfortunate luck of experiencing that disaster first-hand, and almost lost money on it. Thank god you asshats only cost me 48 minutes of my time.

And if I've mistaken your unpaid interns for the suppposed "editors and experts," then I wouldn't want to be involved with you anyway. It's clear you have no business sense whatsoever.

***

Dear Los Angeles Weather Gods,

In case you didn't get the memo, it is the middle of November. We are deep into what other regions of the country call "fall." I know, that's total gibberish to me too, but the fact is that we should not have mid-70s temps right now. Maybe I'm a little nuts because I've worked by the beach for the last 3 years, and it tends to be a little colder there anyway, but come on. I shouldn't be wearing tank tops and cruising around with the AC on these days!

The weather guys are predicting 83 degrees for tomorrow. These are the same jackasses who told us it was supposed to rain over the weekend, so I'm putting their powers of prognostication on par with Miss Cleo and her minions. Regardless, there is something very wrong with this current situation. Fix it! I'd like to bust out my light cotton sweaters and boots, but I can't do that till you knock the temperature down a good 10 degrees.

I look really good in a sweater, dammit. So stop robbing me of the right to wear one! This isn't Australia!