Dear Restaurant Patrons,

Hello, I’m Gen, and I’ll be serving you tonight. Please, allow me to lay down some ground rules so that we both may have a pleasant dining experience.

First off, if you are in a group of more than six, and someone is running a few minutes late, please wait at the door, and don’t decide to just be seated and wait if the restaurant is busy. I have you and at least four other tables, I can’t be coming back to your table five times to get umpteen separate drink orders . And don’t get pissy when I CAN’T get back to you right away when your eleventh guest finally arrives and wants to order their big-spender water-with-lemon, because I’m trying to pour your other drinks and deal with my other tables. I think it’s rather rude anyway…I’d like my party to wait for me to arrive if it’s within five or ten minutes. It’s not like any of you people order your food before the others arrive anyhow, so it’s clearly not a matter of starvation.

Also, just as a pre-warning; if you only have an hour lunch break, and it takes ten minutes to get from your office to this restaurant and back, that leaves you with forty minutes to spend here. Do not tell me that you’re in a hurry. I don’t care. I’m not the idiot ordering a three course meal on a half-hour-long break. Trust me, I want to get your overbearing ass out of that chair and back to your workplace just as quickly as you do. I’ll get your drinks, your meal, and your check in a timely fashion. It’s what I was trained to do.

Now, on the subject of drinks; if I ask for your I.D. upon receiving an alcoholic beverage order and you don’t have it, do not proceed to give me attitude. One, take the fucking compliment; I just non-verbally questioned whether you are twenty-one or not, so if you’re older, that’s usually a good thing. Two, who the hell leaves the house without their driver’s license anymore? Especially if going out to eat and possibly have a few drinks? It’s your fault, love, not mine. Use some common sense, fucktart.

Please take less than ten minutes choosing something to eat. I’ll admit; I’m usually the last person to pick out my food when I go out, and the waitress usually has to come over multiple times to pester me about it. However, when you spend twenty minutes just chatting and not even opening your menu, then I have a problem. You see, I only make $2.65 an hour, and you sitting there not ordering for that long keeps me from getting a new table sooner, and therefore, unless you plan on tipping me a shitload, you’re costing me money. And don’t you dare give me attitude when at twenty-five minutes, after walking by your table eighty-seven times, when I don’t immediately the exact moment you pick out your fucking orange chicken bowl and promptly appear to take your rassafracking order. I’m not a psychic. If I was, I would own a hotline and not deal with stupid bitches like you.

Now, on the subject of children. I love kids. I do. I want some of my own someday. However, some of the little hellions you people bring in make me want to nuke my ovaries. Listen, people; when your kid is running around the already crowded table, swinging straws like a slave overseer with a whip and crawling under other people’s tables, it’s time to rein in your coochspawn, okay? Be a fucking parent. Your kid is not a free spirit. She is not cute. She is a fucking pain in the ass, and I don’t care if she gets a booboo when I trip over her stupid ass. She’s thirty pounds. Pick her up and tie her to the fucking chair. It’s not inhumane, it’s parenting. And on that note, clean up after your little darlings, if you don’t mind. Having to clean up ground up French fries and smushed macaroni is not worth the ten percent tip your cheap ass left me.

About that tip thing…twenty percent, people. We make less than three dollars per hour. Unlike the rest of you, we have not had an increase in our minimum wage. And we never get more than minimum wage. Our income depends solely on you. That’s why the typical tip percentage raises over time. Ten percent was fine twenty, even ten years ago. It’s not today. I personally never tip below twenty percent unless the service was horrible…ten percent is what I give to bad servers. And yes, I know the economy is bad, I understand. However, if you can’t afford to tip, don’t fucking go out to eat, you classless fucks.

Now…can I interest you in a margarita or Long Island iced tea? ^_^

Love, Gen

Dear Drama Mongers,

Hola. Gen here. You may not recognize me, because I tend to avoid you like the plague. Pleasure meeting you, nonetheless.

Let me tell you a little bit about myself. I am laid back to a fault. To the point that sometimes I let outright insults just roll off my back with so much as a blink. Usually, I avoid confrontation when it is aimed at me, and the only time I step in is if my friends and loved ones are affected. I’m anti-drama, to put it simply. I am twenty-three years old; I am young enough to realize I have a lot more fun things to do with my time, and old enough to know that life is short and should not be wasted on things like petty drama.

I only wish that other people would realize this. I am so tired of stupid, petty, time-wasting high school drama that I would rather take a nail gun to my nipples than hear one more “I’m so pissed at so-and-so because A told B that she heard from C that Q said that so-and-so went to a party with J and not V and me.” Guess what? We’re not in junior high anymore. Cliques are out. Circles will expand, people will grow, friendships will change.

Who was your best friend in high school may not be your best friend after college; it’s just how things are. I was lucky enough to find a best friend that was willing to grow with me, even though there were times I thought our friendship might end. Thankfully, we’re both mature enough to handle changes in our relationship, and pushed on through. Point is, I am so SICK of hearing how one friend is “pissed” at another for stupid, ridiculous, childish, Disney Channel-drama reasons.

Let’s take a moment, shall we? You’re “pissed” at your best friend because she went to a party without you. The last interaction the two of you have is you throwing your little muted hissy fit and ignoring her the rest of the night, making sure to let EVERYONE know through body language that you are displeased. On the way home that night, her car is hit, and she’s killed.

Yeah, puts it into perspective, doesn’t it?

So, please, if you want to remain within my circle of friends, grow a pair of ovaries and get the fuck over it.

Forever anti-drama,

Love, Gen.

Dear Friend of a Friend with Benefits,

Hi there. No need for introduction, right? After all, we've known each other for nearly twenty years, it'd be silly to waste our time with such frivolities.

Two weeks ago we ran into each other, after five years of not seeing each other at all. I was with my closest friends, you were with yours. One of which, as you well know, I had (and still have) an attraction to. And, I really must admit, I think it was blaringly obvious that night that I was very much interested in him, and not you. I sat with him, touched his arm, laughed, had a good time, flirted, and all that jazz. With him. Not you.

And yet, there you were, pulling him aside to tell him that you would be taking me back to your place that night. I find that quite amusing, because I fail to recall that little agreement being made. Even if I HAD been interested in you, that would've effed you over, my friend. It did anyhow. Why? Because I went home with him that night. Guess you were wrong, weren't you?

Cut to last night, please. Ran into the two of you again. He and I had a mutual, unspoken agreement; there would be no drama, no exclusivity, just having fun and being casual. But no. You couldn't let that be, could you? You had to make a go for it again. And not only that, you claimed to need his permission to date/fool around with/fuck me? Really? Because I'm some piece of cattle that must be designated to whatever sorry excuse for a man needs my services that night. He cannot give you permission for ANYTHING. I can. And I won't.

I was honest with you. And quite considerate, all things considered. I told you, in as kind a manner as possible, that I simply wasn't interested in you in that way; you're a friend, I've known you since the first grade, and I'm simply not attracted to you in that way. And it's not your fault; you simply aren't my type.

But you couldn't take it like a gentleman, could you? No. Your wounded pride's cup runneth over, and you looked at me and said "Oh. That's right. You're still hung up on ------."

.......

Oh, no you didn't.

That's right. You gave me a guilt trip. You said how pathetic I was, and somehow managed to make me look shallow and vain and whorish for NOT sleeping with you. And I couldn't do anything about it, because to give it back to you like you deserved would mean making EVERYONE at that bar aware of the situation, and it really wasn't any of their business. Nor was it yours, but I digress.

And then you both left, before I could even recover my own thoughts. I ran out to catch you, to tell you exactly how I felt about your bullshit, but you'd already gone.

And now, thanks to you, I don't know how to proceed with him. I like him a lot, liked what we had going. It may not have been perfect, but at least, for the moment, I was happy. I felt wanted. And now you took it away. Thanks a lot, dick.

That's right. Not even a sarcastic closing remark. You have pissed me off that much.

I'd watch out, darling.

Love, Gen.

This, and I am sure that you lovely people will agree with me, is long overdue...


Dear You,

I am the woman that the girl you mentally and emotionally beat down turned into. Pleased to meet me, the pleasure is yours.

Now, I'm a reasonable woman. Truly, really, I am. I am strong enough to accept blows to my heart and ego, and am mature enough to admit that I was not always right. It takes two to tango, and it takes to tear something apart. I am also mature enough to simply get on with my life, put the past behind me, and reap what benefits I can out of the experience, whether it was good, bad, or ugly.

However, I can't help but notice that you fail to have that same sense of maturity.

Wow, that's amazing. You knocked her up. Congratulations. It must have been quite the feat, having unprotected sex. Damn. I wish I was that talented.

Now, I understand that you're excited. I'm not sure why, because you know nothing about raising a child, are far too young, and will likely be wallowing in debt forever because of this, but yeah. I know you're happy. Good for you.

But guess what?

I don't care.

Nope. I don't. I don't even want to hear about it. I can't imagine why you would so OBVIOUSLY make sure I found out, other than you thought that I would be jealous and regret leaving you. Oh yes. How could I have been so stupid as to not stay with someone who probably was not faithful to me from day one? Silly me, valuing monogamy, trust, and loyalty so highly. But I do. Very much so.

I realize we both failed at the relationship. You weren't what I wanted, and I wasn't what you wanted. Simple enough. But the problem is, you went and found someone else before we split up, darling, and that is a horribly low, cowardly, pussy thing to do. Anyone will tell you. I wasn't even really surprised. You could never end a relationship legitimately. You just don't have it in you, sweetness. You never did. You're just not man enough to face your problems, and that's okay. Whatever. I don't have to deal with it anymore, so you go ahead and do what you do.

However, please refrain from attempting to rub my face in something that has no appeal for me anymore whatsoever. I left you, remember? I left you because I wanted to, and I regret nothing. Except perhaps leaving sooner. We were together far longer than we should have been, that much is certain. But the fact that you pussed out and cheated (and yes, it IS cheating) was the last straw, and I left. Thank God, Goddess, and any other deity out there.

So please, refrain from trying to show off this happy, perfect little relationship you now have with someone other than me. I don't want to be with you. And I certainly don't want to incubate your hellspawn.

Love, Gen.

Dear Boys,

I am a woman. Pleased to meet you.

I say "pleased to meet you" because it is fairly evident that you have never met one of us before.

Let's start off by saying that I am a person. I want to start on a simple, general note, you see, because this is going to get a bit more complicated as we go along, and I don't want to overwork your precious little heads.

Also, do keep in mind the addressees of this little correspondence. "Boys." Not men. Because, as evident by the following information, this is not addressed to men at all. It is fairly obvious that I have not met enough men to form a solid, unbiased opinion of them, because there are too many adolescent-minded, un-chivalrous, just-plain-rude dildos out there masquerading as men for me to figure it out correctly. So, if you are a man, and you are reading this, please do not assume that I am speaking to you. And if you reply to this with "I'm a man, baby," or something similar, you can go ahead and assume that you are, in fact, not one, and call it good.

First off. Boys. Catcalling. Honestly, I appreciate it. If you find a woman attractive and feel the need to whistle, howl, honk your horn, or otherwise vocalize your appreciation for her looks, please, feel free. I, personally, am not offended at all by it. I don't get complements like that much, so its a bit of an ego boost.

However.

Do NOT get all pissy and alpha-male if I so choose to ignore such outward showings of attraction. When I am walking into a party store desperate for caffeine and/or liquor and you honk your horn on the way by, there's a chance I may not acknowledge it A) because I wasn't aware that it was directed at me or B) I am in such a school/work-induced stupor that my only focus is on the liquid goodness the store ahead of me contains and I missed your honk all together. DO NOT circle around in your beat-up, hubcap-less, going-to-die-right-about-now pickup and call me a "fucking stuck-up bitch" because I didn't giggle/smile/thank you/suck your dick at the drop of a compliment. It doesn't work that way with me, darling. I will give it back just as hard as you bring it, and I am far more advanced than "fucking stuck-up bitch." You can trust me on that one.

On the other end of the spectrum, if you find me attractive/interesting/bed-worthy, do me a favor. COME UP TO ME. Yes, I realize that it can be a pleasant surprise when a woman makes the first move, but you are dealing with a woman who has made the first move most of the time, only to be burned a lot, and therefore, would like to be actually approached once in a while. And do not give me that "the guys shouldn't have to do all the work" bullshit, because they don't anymore. I myself have approached guys I found attractive, as have many other women I know. And if you blokes don't do the approaching, doesn't that mean that, if one of you does so, it'd be against the norm and be a pleasant surprise for the ladies. And no "she might shoot me down and I'll be humiliated" excuses either. We are not on such a high pedestal, boys. We are not going to laugh in your face and call you a silly little human for daring to speak to us. Honestly. We have confidence issues, same as you. I myself am terrified of being shot down rudely, and therefore would never do so to another person. Seriously. If you are interested, come up to me. If I am not interested back, I will not blatantly shoot you down in an embarrassing manner. I will be honest, but not mean. And considering I don't even have a "type," there's a good shot that I'll be interested back.

Chivalry is not dead. It is merely being hidden by the wave of fucktarts who think having a penis makes you a man. If you're a man, please, do us ladies a favor, and make your presence known by actions, not words. You will be remarkably and pleasantly surprised by our reactions.

Yours truly and still (sometimes blessedly) single,
Gen.

Dearest Friend of a Friend's Ex with Bad Hair,

Hello. I hate you.

This is going to be short and sweet, as I do not know the whole story, and therefore can't delve into the details like you did, since you CLEARLY know EVERYTHING about Jo, whom from the sounds of it, you've never carried on a conversation with.

Jo is an adult. She can make her own decisions. She can make her own mistakes. She's a very smart woman, and can recognize said mistakes when she makes them. And she has, as her many blog entries can elaborate on. She doesn't need some punk wannabe asshole with no class telling her what she did wrong, and how everything is her fault.

It's not all her fault. Nor does she claim that it's all Andy's fault. She accepting her responsibility, which I find highly commendable. Her ability to admit her wrongs and weaknesses is one of the things I admire most about her, as most people (hintwinknudge) are unable to do so.

As someone who has had a horrible disease wished upon them, let me say that telling Jo she will die of AIDS is one of the most horrendous, immature, classless, tactless, stupidest things I've ever heard anyone utter. You clearly have not lost someone you love to a disease that destroys the body from the inside out, or else you would NEVER wish that on someone. Ever. And if you still would, you're scum. Evil, heartless scum. I'd never wish something like that on you. I think you're more deserving of being abandoned by all of your friends one by one as they realize what an absolute bag of worthless shit you are.

So before you go around throwing around words like "slut" and "ditzy bitch," take a couple of ethics and etiquette classes. Pots and kettles, you know.

Sincerely,

Gen.

Dear People Who Were On Campus On Tuesday,

I didn't have the nauseating privilage of meeting you lot in person.

For that, I am happier than a nymphomaniac in a dildo store.

I myself am a pro-lifer. I believe that once you are conceived, you are a person, and killing a person of any size is murder.

That is pretty much where our similarities end.

While I am pro-life, I am not one to tell other people what to do. I am also not one to stand for ignorant fucks parading around our campus telling people they are going to Hell.

What was that, God? You're the only one who can decide on that?

Huh. Novel.

Not only did you bash pro-choicers, you decided to move on and tell homosexuals what you thought of them. This, my friends, is crossing the line. I have no problem with you disliking gays and lesbians; to each his/her/its own. But do not come to MY campus and tell people that their love for another person is wrong and they are going to Hell for it.

And homosexuality is not an abomination. I would much rather watch a guy take it up the ass than to even think of you digusting specimens of the human race procreating. Apparently, Wisconsin is running low on the smart gene, judging from you lot.

Let's say God IS going to damn homosexuals and those who have abortions. What do you think he's going to do to those who discriminate them and treat his creations, sinners though they may be (not my opinion, but a popular one), like shit?

Go back to Wisconsin. Take your gene pool with you.

Sincerely,

Gen.

Dear Rude Customers,

I am the sales associate you almost made cry.

Please to make your acquaintence.

While I am well aware that in the retail business, the customer comes first, I feel the need to lay some ground rules, because apparently, when searching for the perfect pair of panties, you revert back to customs of neanderthalic proportions and can't act like a Homo sapien to save your life.

When I am with another customer, there is a good chance that both he/she and I would like to finish our conversation, so that he/she can find what he/she is looking for. That means that you are supposed to wait, and once he/she leaves and I start talking into my headset to tell ANOTHER associate to help them if they need it, THEN you can talk to me. Otherwise, that poor, much-more-polite client will be lost in a sea of panties and bras that look almost exactly the same, but aren't.

And while we're on the topic of talking, don't be doing that actual action on the phone and still expect me to help you. And if you expect that, don't get all huffy if I don't reply to something. I probably think you're talking to Shaquoia or Bunifa or whoever the hell else you're yakking to on your Nextel. You can call them later, I promise.

You are all beginning to make me theorize that there is a gene in the human system that makes them automatically destroy a pile of perfectly organized V-strings without even wanting the damn panties in the first place. If you touch them again, I will make you eat them.

And if the gate is halfway closed at 9:00 p.m., it means that we are closing, and it is only open to allow whatever customers are still in the store to leave. It does NOT mean we are still open, and you can sneak in and browse for a half hour. It's late, we've been in a room of underwear and heavy perfume fumes all day, and we would like to get the fuck out.

Oh, and our mannaquins are half-naked. DEAL WITH IT. You should be more offended by the fact that they're rediculously thin, even less realistic than our actual MODELS, than the fact that they're wearing lingerie. So don't come bitching to me just because you got embarrassed because you got a hard-on due to some plastic women in front of your wife. She's probably impressed that something got it hard at all, you dick.

Your friendly neighborhood lingerie vendor,

Gen

Dear Idiot Drivers,

Hello there. I'm the blue Grand Am you practically put in a ditch.

Nice to meet you.

First off, lets discuss the simple concept of speed limits. Well, I had previously thought it was a simple concept. I mean, I know the literacy rate is pretty high, and there are some unfortunate souls who are not the majority in that instance, and that minority is clearly the same people that I swear at on a daily basis.

Reading isn't that difficult. Especially numbers.

I sympathize with you, I really do. Sometimes I speed. Not much, maybe five over, but it's speeding nonetheless. Sometimes you just gotta get somewhere fast.

However, when it's pelting freezing rain and hail and visibility is slim to none, do not start riding my ass and flashing your brights at me when I'm going thirty in a 70 mph zone, gripping my leopard-print steering wheel cover and swearing to God that I'll never have sex again if he just gets me home safely. He knows I don't mean it. He probably appreciates the thought. But that doesn't give you any right to freak out at my slowness. Especially since we are the only two cars on a two-lane highway, and you can pass me, if you want. Or if you can, since I cannot see the lines on the road because they are more than two feet in front of my windshield, and I am probably in the middle of the road. But still, calm down.

And Mr. Escalade/Hummer/Jacked-Up F150, please understand my plea. I am a mere, sedan-driving mortal, and I realize I cannot match your four-wheel drive awe-inspiringness, but can you and your small penis not cut me off/ride my ass? That'd be swell.

Much thanks.

Love, Gen.