Dear Victor: I love you but I’m getting kind of weak from hunger, and I know you said you didn’t poison anything, but every time I take a bite of something you leer and laugh suspiciously and I have to spit it out. I can only assume this is probably how Gandhi felt when he wasn’t allowed to eat. (Here’s a hint: He felt stabby.)
Dear Victor: Okay, first of all, you don’t know that Gandhi went on a hunger strike on purpose. For all we know he was avoiding poisoning too. The people who survive are the ones who write the history, Victor. Not the people who die of hunger because their husbands may or may not have poisoned all the food in the house. Except guess what? This is all going on my blog, so I can document this in case people find my emaciated body later and demand justice. There will be a reckoning and it will be brutal and swift.
Dear Victor: Great. Now we’re out of Post-its. I’m writing this on the towel you left on the ground this morning, since we obviously have no respect for towels anymore. I’m going to the grocery store for more Post-its, and I’m going to eat unpoisoned Triscuits straight out of the box while I’m there, so I will return fresh and renewed. Also, the cat vomited in the hall and I am not cleaning it up. I have had enough, Victor. And so has the cat. Whom I’m assuming you poisoned.
Dear Victor: The cat and I are leaving you. You can have the dog. Also, I’ve decided not to go get Post-it notes after all, because I’m no longer speaking with you, so I’m just writing this on your hand towel. You will never hear from me again.
Dear Victor: The dog started whining when I told him he had to stay with you, so I’m taking him too.
Dear Victor: Yes, actually I was holding a bag of dog treats when I told him he had to stay with you, but I don’t think that had anything to do with his reaction. Also, we’re running out of dish towels, so this will be my last message to you.
Dear Victor: Okay. Fine. You can have the dog. I tried to put him in the car and he peed on me. You two deserve each other. I am writing this on the dog because it seemed fitting. Also I couldn’t find packing peanuts for the booze, so I just drank it all. YOU WILL MISS ME SO MUCH ONCE I’M SOBER ENOUGH TO WAKE UP AND DRIVE AWAY.
Dear Victor: Wow. That . . . really got out of hand. I’m sending this cat in as a peace offering. I forgive you for all the stuff you wrote on the walls about my sister, and I’m going to just ignore all the stuff you wrote about my “giant ass” (turn cat over for rest) because I love you and you need me. Who else loves you enough to send you notes written on cats? Nobody, that’s who. Also, I stapled a picture of us from our wedding day to the cat’s left leg. Don’t we look happy? We can be that way again. Just stop leaving wet towels on the floor. That’s all I ask. I’m low-maintenance that way. Also, this cat needs to go on a diet. I shouldn’t be able to write this much on a cat and still have room left over.
Epilogue: Victor forgave me and we all lived happily ever after, except for the cat, who had to have his leg amputated, but that was less from the infection and more from his poor circulation because he was so fat. He kind of brought it on himself too. But now he’s less fat. By, like, a whole leg.
(Disclaimer: Most of this chapter was exaggerated, except for the part where Victor left a wet towel on the floor. That shit totally happened. I’m still working through it.)
The Dark and Disturbing Secrets HR Doesn’t Want You to Know
I worked in human resources for almost fifteen years at a number of different companies, including a religious-based organization where one of my duties was to teach people how to be appropriate and professional. Yes, I do see the irony in this.
Human resources is the place where people come to complain and/or shoot people when they just can’t take it anymore. Choosing to work in HR is like choosing to work in the complaint department of hell, except way more frustrating, because at least in hell you’d be able to agree that that Satan is a real dick-wagon without having to toe the company line. The HR department is the place where people stop by to say, “THIS IS TOTALLY FUCKED UP,” and the HR employees will nod thoughtfully and professionally as they think to themselves, “Wow. That is totally fucked up. I wish that this person would leave so I could tell everyone else in the office about it.”