Just as good as a rape whistle.

Dear Semi-Denty black pick up truck:

I know there's probably not a lot you can do about your occupants, and for that, I'm sorry. But could you pass along a short message for me? Basically:

1. If they want to pick up chicks, the Walmart parking lot isn't the place to do it.

2. If they really want my phone number, they should do it in a way that doesn't involve cutting me off on purpose, waving their arms, and thinking its cute.

3. The fact that I'm on my way to a gas station and its 20 degrees outside doesn't really help their case either.

Come to think of it, Semi-Denty Black Pick Up Truck, haven't I seen you before? In fact...weren't you the truck that one guy was in who tried to ask for my number at an intersection in the gritty part of Independence? Yes, I'm certain that was you. I never forget a bumper/grill combo. And come to think of it, I think you were the truck that guy was driving through the Steak N Shake Drive thru. You know, the 27-year-old who called my work an hour later and asked me for a date...when I was sixteen?

That's it truck, I'm on to you. Not only are you a cradle robbing pedophile, but you are also a creepy stalker. I know I'm quite the catch, but subtly following me through my various walks of life is really not the way to get my attention. Maybe had you come earlier and approached me like a gentleman then we could have had a decent relationship, but this is just ridiculous. You can't really blame me for being slightly creeped out by your queer random appearances that always manage to happen in the most ambiguous places that seem like they came be right out of a vintage Hitchcock movie. Or maybe from the Sequel of the Ring. Either way, I don't like the way this is playing out. If you don't leave me alone, I'm going to have to request the use of my Dad's box truck. Or my roommate's tractor. Or my friend Jonathan's family truck. You know, the one that took out a freaking bear in Montana. I don't know what your intentions are, black pick up truck, but due to your strange behavior I'm not afraid to pull out the big guns. I don't have to take this, and if you don't lay off I will be more than happy to use my proverbial vehicle rape whistle.

We'll consider this you're warning, black pick up truck. Grow up, acquire some social skills and stop treating girls like the characters in your star trek fan fiction that you keep in your mother's basement.

Kthxbye.

--Melinda

An Employer's Ultimatum.

Dear Kenmore Dryer-

Ok. I know it's been hard for you. I get that. Not only are you kind of getting on in years, but you have to put up with my roommate never cleaning out the lint basket and an electrical partner that throws an all out self-destructive temper tantrum every time it goes on a spin cycle. I know it isn't easy; its clear by the way you shake anytime you have to work exceptionally hard. Gosh, sending you this letter makes me feel like i'm putting my dog to sleep. But this has to be addressed.

Five hour and a half cycles is LONG ENOUGH. I NEED dry clothes. Not kind of dry clothes, not sopping wet clothes, not almost dry clothes, DRY. CLOTHES. And I need them now. Not tomorrow morning. Not after CSI. Not during the intermission of the Harry Potter marathon. Now. Its not so much that you can't do this, Kenmore dryer, its just that I suspect you are an even worse procrastinator than I am. And considering I recently put off contacts and showering for a week, that's saying something. I know you need breaks, but think about it. Once or twice a week is really not asking that much. Frankly I'm starting to become suspicious of all these "breaks" you've been taking anyway. Have you been smoking, Kenmore dryer? I feel like I've been smelling something lately. And anyway, I can't have a slacker on my watch. I'm not paying you to stand around, dawdle, or do anything that doesn't involve drying my clothes. If you want to get caught up in World of Warcraft or Dungeons and Dragons or Call of Duty or Farmville or something, you're going to have to do it on your own time.

I'm afraid I have no choice but to offer an ultimatum. I don't like it either, and I've tried to be nice. But I don't know what else to do. Either you start effing drying my clothes, or I'm firing your butt and putting you out on the street where you belong with all those other deadbeat appliances. That's right, exactly like in The Brave Little Toaster.

Sincerely,

Melinda.