2003-05-12 - 9:35 a.m.
Dear Honored Co-Workers:
In the next few days, you may witness some unusual sounds and gestures coming from over my way. For instance, you may overhear me scream, "Oh sweet Jesus" when rising from my chair, or discover me walking like a rigid automaton through the halls. I think it will make more sense to you after seeing this:
That, sehr geheerte Mitarbeiterinnen, is my shoulder and the top of my boob. Resembles cooked lobster shell and raw lobster meat, doesn't it? Now, beloved cubby-sharers, try to imagine walking when the backs of your knees look like this. Try to imagine sitting down for 8 hours when the fold between ass and thigh looks like this. Feel me. Know me.
I'll much appreciate your understanding if, when peeling the loosest possible silk dress off my back while in the bathroom, you don't react to my hopping up and down in agony yelling, "fuckit fuckit fuckit!". It would be gracious of you to ignore the smell of cooked skin, aloe vera and Body Shop Sesame Body Butter which is currently seeping from my unhappy pores.
I'll further harbor loving thoughts if you don't comment on my not being able to wear anything more supportive than a tank top, leaving my maracas to bob around like apples in a tin bucket. But most of all, I'll love you for life if you never, ever walk up behind me, put your hand on my insanely stinging shoulder and say, "Wow, this is going to turn into a great tan!"
Half-polish women don't tan, you morons. This will be still be peeling when your firstborn has knocked up more Baskin Robbins employees than Charlie Sheen. Now please, don't touch me. If I have to kill you, it'll make my skin shift positions and I might lose the optimal body butter/skin connection.
Thanks and all the best,
Comments: Speak your piece!
former / latter