WTF Wednesday

I am stealing the idea for this "What the fuuuck Wednesday" from one of my favorite blogs.  Seriously, if you haven't read Carrie Bradshaw is full of shit - go read it.  Obviously after you finish mine... I don't want you to do anything crazy.

So... I have a few things I would like to address.  I'm choosing to do so in letter form because um... I can?

What the Fuuuuck

Dear co-workers,

I love you.  Ok so I guess I only stand? tolerate? know most you.  I'm stoked that you have husbands, families the whole she-bang.  For real.  I'm glad you have someone/thing to go home to.  But please, oh please, let me make one thing clear:  I do not care about your marital problems, the problems you have with your in-laws, with your children - I think you get the drift.  I'm going to beg of you that, unless prompted {and trust - you should know when I am willing to listen}, keep your problems at hooome.  Unless your problems give me great joy and involve fun things to which I can relate.

Dearest friends,

I'm obsessed with you as you all know.  Like I would make babies with 99.8342% of you.  SPEAKING OF BABIES, I'm not ready for them.  I'm not ready for you to be having them on purpose.  I'm not ready for any of us to be thinking about getting engaged or getting married.  It scares the hell out of me.  It sends chills throughout my body.  I think I'm mainly feeling pressure {thanks, mom}.  I can barely take care of myself so if you feel like you need to mother something, I'm willing to drink too much and force you to babysit me.  Consider it practice?  On that note, I'm absurdly excited for those of you that ARE having babies and getting married.  Mainly for those that have/are having chillrens.  I'm probably the best aunt ever.  Just ask Ms B.

Dear WordFeud, Angry Birds, HeyTell, Peep, et al,

Thank you for being the best fucking apps on the face of the planet.  I have no idea how I got through the day without you.  Real life.

Dear life,

Get yourself together.  I'm talking to you, hormones.  While I do enjoy my boobies, I'm tired of getting distracted by you {don't judge me}.  Also if you could cut out the crampage in my lady biz, that'd be great.  I know I'm not actually having an alien baby but I also know that I need it to stop.  Stat.  Now your turn, house:  I don't like having to do laundry for hours on end.  I don't like doing it at all, actually.  If you could become robotic {the cool kind - not the creepy kind} and take of that yourself that would be solid.  

Dear jello shots,

Fuck. You.  It's over between us.  I mean it this time?

I want to barf even thinking about last weekend.

Dear Grace Potter and the Nocturnals,

Thank you for being the baddest merfs around.  GP, I have a serious girl crush on you.  Please don't ever sell out.  Oh, and please come back to Memphis.