Dear Mr or Mrs. Idiot

Dear Mr. or Mrs. Idiot Blowing Disgusting Black Shit Out of Your 14 Wheeler on Thursday Sept 28, at Approximately 1:45 PM in Williamsburg Brooklyn,

I hate you. You ruined my day and my clothes and shoes and skin and caused me to have an awkward transaction with a bank teller. I hope you go to hell. You or your truck needs to like, die.

It was a wonderful, sunny, warm, autumn day and I was walking to the bank. I had almost arrived at my destination and was standing on the curb with other pedestrians from the neighborhood, waiting for the light to change. I was holding two Netflix DVDs and my Ipod, which was currently playing some Jimmy Witherspoon.

All of sudden I saw your smoke far off in the distance. What the hell is that? A fire? Oh, wait...HOT DAMN. It's coming out of that disgusting truck. Your truck was bouncing down the street, not a care in the world, thick black smoke happily streaming out of the top. It was creating an evil, cancerous cloud everywhere. The pedestrians and I coughed and moaned in disbelief covering our faces and squirming our bodies, wincing from the fumes as your truck passed us. The light changed right then and we had to walk across the street directly into the cloud of death, which your truck had excreted moments earlier.

Unbelievably, I made it safely across the street and I looked down at my Ipod so that I could turn it off before entering the bank. OH MY GOD. WTF IS THIS????

There, all over my precious Ipod, were hundreds of little black dots-- the residue from the smoke which YOUR devil truck had been puffing everywhere!!! These dots had somehow attacked me as I crossed the street and attached themselves onto my poor, innocent Ipod. I looked at my hands. They were COVERED in dots. The dots were all over my arms, legs, chest, shirt and shoes. And God knows if it was all over my arms, legs, chest, shirt and shoes it was probably all over my face too. I didn’t even have a mirror to check. I thought I probably looked like I had some sort of explosive infectious discolored freckle disease. Now I still had to go into the bank looking like this. Ok, I thought, DON’T PANIC. It should rub off easily, right? WRONG. I rubbed furiously as I walked up the steps to the bank and nothing, nothing came off. I’m stuck this way. What should I do? Walk all the way back home to wash it off? Then come back? Just pretend I don’t know it’s there? Find a Starbucks and use their bathroom and scrub myself like mad? Nope, there’s no time. I have to go to work soon. I just need to go into the bank and make my transaction and deal with this later. I went into the bank, approached the bank teller and our conversation went like this:

Me: Um….do I have…um…little black dots all over my face by any chance????
Bank Teller: (laughing AT me) Uh…no…….
Me: Oh ok, well can I use your bathroom because I have this black soot shit all over my arms and legs and chest and shirt and shoes cause this big truck just drove by and was polluting all this smoke and it rained down on me and all these other people and it won’t come off so I need to wash it off right now because I know I look ridiculous.
Bank: We don’t have public bathrooms.
Me: Ok, well can I make a deposit?

I left the bank and went home to scrub my tainted skin off, hoping the black shit would come off too. Unfortunately your dirty, toxic, mystery formula seemed to be imbedded in me forever. Soap and water was just not good enough. I had to rub my whole body raw with little mini eye-make up remover pads in order to even start to get it off. And I can still see the dots all over me. I don’t even know what these black dots are. What is it? Oil? Dirt? Nuclear warheads? Who the fuck knows? All I know is that it’s stuck on me and it stained my clothes and shoes and you need to either pay or for it, or die a horrible death and let me laugh while it happens.

Sincerely,

The Girl you Totally Screwed With