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Entitlement

I am a person who naturally has a hard time asking for help, on anything, be it valid or not. So it is understandably hard for me to swallow when I see bloggers begging for money…..for fun things. Not a matter of life and death or on-the-streets poverty. I’m sorry that your dog needs surgery, that you can’t afford to visit your friends 8 states away, that you covet a pair of pants/shoes/boots/undies that cost $500, that there’s a pervy event all your friends are going to¬† – and that you don’t have the money.

Wait, no.

I feel your pain but I’m not *sorry*.

Have you looked at the economy? Have you looked at the economy of the average blogger? Your readers? Because guess what, those that have the money worked hard for it and aren’t going to dole it out (and are likely too busy making money to be reading your blog). Those who are also struggling are in no secure place to be giving you money.

My money situation at home isn’t great. It’s not poverty-line, and hub needs a new job, and we have some bills. If I found myself unable to afford any of my NY trips then guess what……I WOULDN’T GO. It would suck a whole lot, sure. But I’m never going to come here and beg you all to send me to NY just because it’s what my little heart desires. I’ve had some close calls with being able to afford my blog-related trips, but I always pull myself out of it. I care about my traffic numbers on my sites and keeping them in good standing…..I write and I market and you know why? So that I can get and keep advertisers. Because the advertisers pay my site costs and my trips for fun blogger-related events. Not my household money. Not my friends’ money.

Where do you get off with this sense of entitlement? Who encouraged you? What makes you think you look good begging? You don’t. Do not tell me how hard you work at your blog and that I, as your reader, should be guilted into pay you for the privilege of reading it. You need the extra cash? Then get up off your ass and go WORK for it. Put actual work into your blog and get advertisers/sponsors. Lay off the beer. Eat ramen a few nights a week. But do not ask your community to help pay for your incidentals, your fun times.If your friends want you at an event THAT badly then THEY can pay your way.

If you should ever find yourself pondering a bloggers sad plea for money, and you have the $25 to spare, stop and think about this first: There are people in other countries, in our country, in your town who are homeless and starving. There are pets living in crowded shelters. There is medical research that is in sore need of funding. DONATE TO THEM.

The Office

I can’t really rant about specifics regarding my co-workers or office on my main blog, to reduce the risk of the wrong person putting 2 and 2 together someday should said wrong person ever find my blog. With that said, here I go.

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Dear Twatty Supervisor

You are quite possibly the most incompetent supervisor I have ever had. How you got the job is beyond me. Either that or you’re brilliantly smart and have figured out how to play the system. Either way, I don’t like you and I hope your baby splits you like a watermelon when you give birth soon.

Moreover, I hope you don’t ever come back from maternity leave. I can feel myself getting more and more twitchy by the day when I look across the tiny aisle and see you with your chin in your hand, staring off into space, working hard at doing absolutely fucking nothing. I want to shake everybody else that works with us until they realize just how little you do, how often you sneak out way too early, and how they have you to thank for their bits of extra work.

Dear Old Man

Old Man, you really piss me off. Your habit of giggling in your annoying accent at the every corner drives me up the wall. Your inability to comprehend the simplest of instructions that deviate from your daily rote baffles me. How you have worked here so long and can still be so fucking stupid is beyond me.

Also I don’t know WTF you are doing back there at lunchtime when you finally sit at your desk, but for the love of Pete don’t fucking jab at the “enter” key so loudly! A prominent and forceful bang of the key does nothing for your document, it doesn’t emote anger or frustration. It just pisses me the fuck off and is killing your keyboard.

Dear Mr. Ed

I call you that because you crunch on crunchy things all day long, and one of my biggest pet peeves is hearing people chew food. Even if your mouth is closed, I can hear you crunching on the carrot and frankly it makes me want to sneak meat into your potato salad. Your inability to sit still for more than 10 goddamn minutes is hell on my alt-tab abilities of switching screens so that people walking by don’t see that I’m not doing work at that second.

I don’t like you. You’re loud. You’re an idiot. And that goddamn hearing aid works better than you let on so cut it the fuck out. You do too know when you’ve farted and if you can’t hear it you surely can feel it and if not then you need to visit your proctologist more often.

Dear Girly Giggler

I don’t know who you are, since I can’t see over the partition one aisle over, but I hear you all day long relating some “funny” story in hushed tones while you giggle this high-pitched breathy giggle that kinda sounds like you’re crying and it makes me want to shove a worn-for-a-week-straight sock in your mouth and cover it with 4 layers of ducttape or at the very least punch you in the nose and *deep breath* YOU MAKE ME STABBY!

Dear Mr. Midlife Crisis

You drive a red sportscar. You walk around with the gait of “my shit don’t stink” and your pompous mouth never fucking shuts. You stroll by and stare like you’re a king gazing at this kingdom.

I’m pretty sure that you have a small penis. And you’re annoying. I hope you make a lot of money at your job in which you walk around chatting more than you actually work because that’s the only way you’re going to keep your wife.

Dear Nosy Nelly

You know that plant of mine that’s on my desk and in my basket and that I bought? Guess what? IT’S MINE, BITCH. So I don’t have a green thumb. If I want to let it go ahead and die the whole way, I will. I don’t care if you have to walk by it. Leave it alone! Get your scrawny fingers out of there and quit pruning my goddamn plant without asking me, getting water and dirt all over my desk and watering it when I JUST WATERED IT. It’s dying. I didn’t need your expert opinion to figure that out. Hands off, bitch. And pick up your feet, you shuffle like a 4 year old.

Dear iPod, headphones, and Pandora Radio

Without you, I might have killed a co-worker by now, or at least become addicted to valium or sneaking a joint in the ladies room. Thank you for providing me with the aural escape so that I don’t have to listen to these hyenas and chimps. I owe ya one.

Love,

Lilly

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