• I am sick and damn tired of you fools being uninformed.
• If you want to see a woman go straight bananas, try to make me eat a Brussel sprout. You’ll walk over, but you’re limping back.
• I am a pen hoarder. Like, go ahead and get A&E on the phone. [WARNING TO WOULD-BE LENDERS: If I like it, I’m taking it.]
• I’m vicious and I fight dirty. I once chucked an air hockey paddle at The Middle’s head after she beat me. I can’t help it that I’m strong. If she loved me, she would have thrown the game.
• When your grammar sucks, I’m judging you.
• On a road trip, if there’s a Starbucks at least 25 miles off the route, we’re stopping. I don’t give two shits if I’m still drinking the last one, I’m getting a damn latte.
• Apparently, I unconsciously point with my middle finger. Get over yourself. I’m not slyly flipping you off. Trust me, if I was going to tell you to fuck off, I’d just say, “Hey, dip shit. Go fuck yourself. And keep the change.”
• I have inappropriate responses to emotional social situations. While everyone else cries during The Notebook or Steel Magnolias, I burst into awkward guffaws. It becomes a problem at darkly lit fundraisers for cancer survivors.
• I will stab you in the face with a fork before I’ll watch a wolf chase a white bunny across the Alaskan tundra, but that starving kid on the Sigourney Weaver Feed Africa commercials won’t get my 9 cents a day to feed his 5 brothers. He’s 7. Time to be a man.
• I get into stage 5 altercations with my boss over celeb style/ fashion/ parenting/ addictions/ hygiene. Like, yelling, screaming bitch fits. It’s his own fault if he cries because says things like, “As if!” So he’s asking for it.
• If you hear Aretha Franklin or B.B. King at 4,000 decibels ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK because I’m working myself off a ledge somewhere in Bluesville.

Sincerely,

Sally B.