I remember reading somewhere (maybe Dave Barry?) that the only bananas you find in the store are either yesterday’s bananas or tomorrow’s bananas. They never have today’s bananas.
I know I ordered an extra cartridge for our fax. Yet, when I go to replace the depleted one, it’s not in the drawer where I put it. The only one in our office who knew it was in there is the same entitled person who borrows my scissors and doesn’t give it back (although there are three scissors in her tin on her desk), borrows my letter opener and doesn’t give it back (although there is one in her tin on her desk), has somehow disappeared four forks (?? what did you do with the forks??? they were here and now they’re gone… ). Seriously, we’re supposedly adults at this age. Why do I have to hide my three-hole punch so it will be here when I need it? Why do you do petty shit like steal ink cartridges? And staplers? I should have never told you where the kleenex were, as I’m sure all five boxes will end up at your house.
If only. I could probably cope with that. This, however, I can’t. And damnit I shouldn’t be breaking down like a blithering wreck in the middle of the damned office. 
Dear dumbfuck asstard driving a silver-gray Subaru near the Wal-Mart on Fairview Avenue in Meridian, Idaho at around 6:30 PM on 3/10/08:
In case you haven’t noticed it, the lane you are driving in will be coming to an end very soon– and an abrupt end at that, not one of those lanes that nicely and smoothly merges gradually into the lane next to it, but an end that would require you to turn onto the street it connects to-- that is, unless you want to test your car’s suspension driving over a ditch and other obstructions not best suited for the undercarriage of a non-4-wheel-drive vehicle such as yours, and likely pissing off some property owner in the process. While you did not have your turn signal on, you were moving steadily at a sufficiently slow pace (about 15-20 mph, having slowed down, in fact) as to lead me to confidently and safely assume you had planned to turn. So why in the blue holy monkeyfuck did you blindly and carelessly suddenly pull into my lane upon realization that there was no more asphault to drive on in front of you, forcing me to lose about a quarter inch of the rubber on my tires in one second and nearly cause my front grill and fender to become inextricably intermingled with your car’s rear hatch?!! People like you are part of the reason we have bus service. I highly recommend that you take advantage of such services for the safety and sanity of those of us who are at least reasonably skilled in the proper operation of an automobile. Also please tell me the name of the incompetent dolt at the DMV who foolishly issued you a driver’s license so I can go in there and pay this moron a visit and deliver a much-deserved punch to his teeth. If tricycles required licenses you wouldn’t even qualify.
You there! Uvula! Stop swelling! You’re really grossing me out dangling there at the back of my throat, bouncing up and down on my tongue with every movement of my jaw. Plus you’re semi-activating my gag reflex and making me totally nauseated. So knock it off!
God DAMN it, when will be fucking Beatles go away? I know, they were the ‘most important band in history’ which is bullshit IMO, but it’s been what, 40 years, aren’t we tired of that drippy, stale, homogenized shit YET? The same finger goes up to the radio stations who barrage innocent listeners of modern music to the tepid craptastical circus that is the Beatles. Please go away.
Huh. The rumor going round the web was that you didn’t have a gag reflex.
Stupid lexapro giving me weird, tripped-out panic dreams again.
They’re never nightmares in the conventional sense. Nothing I can point to and go “See, that’s scary”. When I describe them, people are like “So? That’s not scary” but still when I’m having them I just feel dread. And when I’ve spent the whole night dreaming that hard, I always feel tired the next morning.
Also, I hope these things in front of my eyes aren’t auras. I don’t need a friggin’ migraine today.
I feel for all you sick people. I’ve been dying of the flu for about a week, myself. Yesterday I got almost all the way to work when I developed a blind spot in my left eye, so I popped in to tell my co-workers I still couldn’t make it, then drove home, pulling over halfway home to puke. Then I spent about 20 hours in bed, barfing anything I tried to take in. Unfortunately, I didn’t make it to the toilet every time. I think the bathroom wall’s going to be permanently stained.
Oh, aren’t those fun? I had some yonks ago when I was in the hospital. Can’t remember what meds I was on. I woke up once desperately worried that Australia was going to run out of postage stamps, and twice with a fervent resolve to devote myself to the cause of women’s suffrage.
If you’re going to use small weights on the treadmill, put the damned things back after you’re done! Don’t just leave them in the cupholders. You’d have to cross the fitness room in an apartment complex to put them away, not the Serengeti on foot. It’s 10 steps at the most. How ironically lazy can you fucking be?
Look, you oxygen deficient mouse warmer, just because you have access to the internet doesn’t mean you have to foist your complete lack of vocabulary, spelling, typing and other basic writing skills on me. Stop emailing me. I don’t handle arbitrary queries and admin. See those vacant things staring back at you from shiny surfaces? Those are called eyes. Raise yours one line up and voila, you have the contact details for queries and admin.
Fuck off already.
Fuckers.
Will you marry me and may I please bear your children?
Fucking telemarketers, would you PLEASE state upfront what you want from me? That way I can quickly but politely decline, saving me from having to listen to you and freeing you up to make more calls.
I bought a bookcase or cabinet, glass front, with lights from above to illuminate your tchotchkes. Paid a hunnert bucks to have it delived from the Town Known For Its Furniture, which is 45 miles away. Took 3 weeks for delivery, until they had a full-truck run scheduled in this direction.
The lights don’t work. Fuck! I did not pay mumblety-five dollars for a defective cabinet! Now I have to call the damn store in TKFIF and find out how the holy hell they’d like to handle this, which I suspect will involve picking up the unit and replacing it with another. And when? Three weeks from now? Meantime, my books and doodads are piled on the table; that looks real nice. And though I sure as hell am not paying for re-delivery, I will have to tip the delivery guys again, because otherwise I’ll feel like a shitheel. Dammit!
You did remember to plug it in, didn’t you?
I wish whatever form of flu it is that’s trying to attack me would just either win or go away. I’m tired of this business where I’m tired and a bit warm a bit achy, but not enough to justify missing work. If I’m going to be sick, let me be sick, none of this half-assed nonsense.
“Plug it in?” OMIGO –
Of course I did. 
In fact, the rachin’frachin’ thing weighs so much I wouldn’t let them snug it up against the wall until I’d plugged it in.
How the holy fuck does someone manage to work regularly and not be able to use a computer at ALL? I get to overhear the new salesman ask questions like ‘how do I go to a webpage?’ I realize he’s in his fifties and thus didn’t grow up with computers, but, come on! They’re fucking everywhere, every job I’ve ever done required me to use one. He’s not even the first salesperson we’ve had like that.
Also, I’m tired of having no energy. It’s not even physical energy (most of the time), I have no mental energy. It’s fucking annoying. And I’m tired of not being able to get up in the morning, then around four I’m tired and I want to go home. Then I can’t fall asleep at night, so I take a Benadryl, which probably doesn’t make it any easier to get up in the morning.
And dammit, characters, stop pestering me with story ideas when I’m supposed to be doing homework or working! Go away. Go kill something in the back of my head and let me get my work done! Yes, you too Joker! Go snog Batman or something. Just stop telling me about it. Lemme alone. (Yeah, my brain is weird)
These people are not living on a mountain owned by Charles Manson. They are not Manson’s followers. They are some happy queer folk who are self-sufficient. Dumbasses, stop spreading this bullshit.