To The Bitch That Interviewed Me This Morning:
What do you think's gonna happen when you neglect to tell me that this supposed "great job" involves frequent travel at the drop of a hat? Do you think you could have told me that during our phone interview so that I wouldn't have had to waste my time driving out to Timbuktu to talk to your bimbo ass? Do ya really think it's gonna help me change my mind when I tell you I don't think the travel will work, that I have alot of personal commitments like my family and my future husband, and then you tell me, "Well, talk it over with your fiancé. You know, a happy wife makes for a happy marriage!" And what do you think's gonna happen when, before you tell me about the travel, you make me take a fucking test that involves numbers, which I'm normally really good at but not first thing in the morning and especially not when you surprise me with it?
Well, you're gonna cause me to get really pissed, and be fuming when I walk out of there all uncomfortable wearing a suit in this heat, and be starving 'cause I didn't eat any breakfast 'cause I had to get up an hour earlier than usual to come meet you. And you're gonna cause me to have a sudden brain fart on the 60 freeway, when suddenly, my empty tummy and I feel like having a few Spam musubis from Shakas in Monterey Park to make up for all of this and though I've been there a million times and know full well that it's on Garfield, took the Atlantic exit by mistake. Uh-huh, you caused me to get off on the wrong exit--one that, when I finally realized what I had done, had a traffic signal out a couple blocks up, making for one helluva traffic jam. So then I said, "Fuck it," and just went home, where I had to get ready for my "normal" job, which now seems like paradise compared to your hell-hole, and where I proceeded to scarf down ALL the leftover rice that was in my fridge.
Yeah, take your job and shove it. Bitch.
(So do you think I should send this instead of the traditional Thank-You letter?)