To Everyone Who Is Pissing Me off These Days, Please Stop

This week hasn’t been going well. I am incredibly stressed out about the wedding, and I’m not handling it very well. Lord Kissington and I never fight and we actually had an argument the other night. I’ve been going crazy at the gym in an effort to burn off some of the excess stress and rage but it’s not really working. My apartment looks like a combination between a pigsty and a Crate and Barrel showroom (well, a Crate and Barrel showroom that has really let itself go).

To my mother: Seriously, does it really matter whether the floral arrangements for the tables are in square or round vases? I said I liked the square vases. Was it really necessary to spend 15 minutes arguing with me and the florist about the vases?

To my neighbors and the rental office: Why did you pick this week to send me a letter complaining about noises that we’re not making? For the entire time we’ve lived in this apartment, there have occasionally been loud hammering noises that go on for hours. The noises are clearly coming from the floor below us. On several occasions, we’ve gotten calls from the front desk asking us to stop hammering. Each time, I have patiently explained that the noises are not coming from our apartment. Each time, I have asked the person who called to tell the complainant that the noises were not coming from our apartment, but, apparently, this was never done. I’ve gotten only one call in the last year, but yesterday you saw fit to give me a letter saying that my neighbors are complaining about my hammering. I’M NOT FUCKING HAMMERING, YOU IDIOTS! Whoever is making these noises is hammering for hours on end. This is not a few pictures being hung. Come into my apartment. You’ll see that I’m not building anything. Perhaps you should check out my neighbors’ apartments. With the amount of hammering that’s been going on lately, I can only imagine the culprit is building something really large, like a fallout shelter.

To my hairdresser: I love what you do with my hair. And I think yesterday’s trial run for my wedding hairstyle was great. But sadly, the makeup trial didn’t go as well. You made me look like a six-year-old who has gotten into her mother’s makeup bag. Was it necessary to add foundation several shades darker than my natural skin color? I am very pale. If I thought I looked good tan, I would be tan. I’m Irish. We don’t tan; we burn. And what was with all that lip liner to make my upper lips look bigger? Those were clown lips. Sadly, because I am so bad at confrontation and I don’t want to upset our relationship, I will probably still let you do my makeup the morning of the wedding and then go home and do it over again myself. And now I’m just mad at myself.

To the guy at Potbelly who gave me the wrong sandwich and then got mad at me: Yes, I’m sorry that I ended up with the wrong sandwich, but you did say “shwiisgm slaughtyet” and to me that sounded like chicken salad, not turkey breast. And it wasn’t crowded, so I’m not sure how someone who was behind me in line had their sandwich come out of the toaster before mine. But hey, this was clearly my fault.

To the creepy maintenance guy in my building: I actually walk in the other direction most times that I see you coming, just so I won’t have to have awkward, creepy conversations with you where you leer at me. But last night, I couldn’t avoid it. I had to get on the elevator so I was forced to walk past you. But was it really necessary to try to pull me into your stupid conversation and call me “baby”? Shudder.

To our DJ: Did you have to try to guilt me about not making a big deal of the cake-cutting? Was it necessary for you to tell me that this wedding isn’t all about me? Believe me, I’ve known that for months. And is the cake-cutting thing really that important to everyone? He says it’s a photo op. Well, I chose my photographer because he doesn’t really do photo ops, he does candids. And we’re definitely not planning to shove cake in each other’s mouths. If this were some sort of important wedding ritual, I could see the point, but I’ve always regarded it as a good time to hit the bar. And as for the suggested “daddy/daughter dance,” calling it that sounds supercreepy. And I simply can’t imagine dancing with my father to any of the traditional tacky songs, like “Daddy’s Little Girl” or “To Sir, with Love.” The thought makes me throw up a little in my mouth. Dad and I both really dig the Clash and Lou Reed, so maybe if you play something by one of them…

To my insomnia and my brain: Couldn’t you just give me a break this week? I really need some sleep. Is it necessary to wake me up every morning at least an hour before the alarm goes off? And this morning, did you have to wake me up at 4:30 and then allow me to fall back to sleep 15 minutes before the alarm went off at 6:45?

To my subconscious: What was up with that weird dream about my high school being torn down to build luxury condos? Don’t I have enough to worry about without you freaking me out?