To the Oh-So-Suave “CuCaMonga:”

             To whatever dick runs around using the alias “CucaMonga” on the night of February 22, 2006: read this: I have a desperate plea for you.

 Tell your bitch to stop calling me! I don’t know her name, and I don’t know why you fucked her with your magic stick – because in all seriousness… bitch is crazy. What the fuck were YOU thinking?

I didn’t catch her name, but I’ll bet you didn’t either.

So she called me this around 17 times this morning, starting at 11 a.m., its now only 12:18 and I fear the worst is yet to come. Seven voicemails and about four conversations later…she doesn’t believe that I have nothing to do with you, Mr. CucaMonga. No matter how many times I say he isn’t here and that she’s got the wrong number, I hear this in return: “No, I think I have the right number.” And when I told her to get over it, he’s not gonna call you back… she called me “mean” and said that I don’t have to be so rude.

Hah.

She did say, however, that you’re a good fuck and she wants to come over tonight.

She just called again and apparently, all she wants is her purse. And for you to fuck her once again. She thinks I’m your lady and that I’m covering up for you. Please set this lame bitch straight: You saw her, got her drunk, fucked her, and now you want nothing to do with her. Hey man, that’s okay! But I think you picked the wrong bitch to mess with because this girl is persistent. And she even left several voicemails saying that she won’t stop calling until she talks to you.

Did you really have to leave my number? Out of all the numbers in this area code…

I’m only posting this because hopefully you two hooked up on Craigslist and will be searching for another hook-up tonight.

408 .eight-two-eight.1889 is your one-night-stands number. You, or any other gentlemen out there who would like to get her off my back is appreciated.

If it means anything, anything at all; I believe she is still drunk and ready to go.

-Sleepless in Santa Clara.

The day start off... rushed.

For ten minutes of glorious and much-needed extra sleep (6:25 - 6:35 a.m.), I had to abandon breakfast and book it to Fremont for the 8:02 departure of the Richmond-bound BART train.

The race was on, highway 880 turned into my own personal war zone. I raced a brown bronco and lost. A bronco?! Weaving in and out of dotted white lines - wasn't he just going 75 only a moment earlier? As it turns out, today was his day on the freeway. Cars moved out his way - and into mine; and a few big-rigs decided to spit rocks... into my windshield.

Exited Mowry and parked in a "NO BART PARKING" zone and found orange construction signs obstructing my usual route to the station. Hurried up the escalator and almost ate it due to the infamous pointy shoes and sat down in a nice seat next to the window. When the BART finally took off, I found that I was traveling backwards - again.

This part just kills me. Of all the seats in all the land, this smelly assed Indian lady sat down next to me. There were at least 10 chairs that she could have graced with her stinky presence.

Which begs the question: why me?

I'm not friendly nor am I friendly looking. And you can't fake friendliness. If you do - you know you got a problem.

For a brief moment I considered dropping all stigmas toward Indians and their stench...all for the way I wanna be remembered when I die?

How you do wanna be remembered?

On the news, whenever someone passes away nothing but nice things are spoken. "She was genuine and kind-hearted, a great person that lit up so many other's lives," says a homely looking person with her hand across her heart.

What they don't say: "She was genuinely angry and heartless. A funny, obsessive kind of gal that was always lit. But she was hella neat. Edgy... and cool!"

Perhaps if the hateful antics are dropped now; we can ensure a few sweet-sounding words of character description for when we die.

A guarantee warranted by death just isn't enough for me.

I hate my job, and its no surprise that all my co-workers and I do is make fun of unsuspecting passersby. So  many retards, so little time, really. Retard over here, autistic over there...

Some of which are customers. Most.

-

Short creepy fat white man: Hello! It’s always nice to see a friendly face. How are you today?

Me: Just fine.

Fat man: Today was so busy, I hardly got to sit down and read my book! (fucker works at Red Wing Shoes, enough said.)

Me: I see.

Fat man: You know I always remember you…Esti.

Me: *Points at my name tag that says: ESTI.*

Fat man: No, I remember cause you were the one that said-

Me: ‘…If you call me Lucy Liu, I’ll kick you.’

Fat man: Yeah.

Me: Hah, yeah. My remark still stands.

I can see how you’d think I was joking around with him. But seriously, Lucy Liu is fucking ugly. All square-headed and shit.

Especially when compared to me. I'm sure he was tryin to compliment me and shit, poor white man.

I need a new job people.

Please help.