Everyone thinks that today’s society enables them to be jaded and experienced. In some way or another, we all think we’re special and that we’ve been through just as much as everyone else. Well, ladies, that’s absolute bullshit. I can tell you now that you have absolutely nothing in common with those who’ve experienced true hardship. It’s ridiculous to think that just because you couldn’t salvage enough from your paycheck to do your weekly mani-pedi, you think you’re going to be destitute. This world is chock full of people who have nothing and have been through the ringer. No, ladies, just because you’re thirteen pounds overweight doesn’t mean you can hold it against the world. It doesn’t mean you can identify with rape victims, destitute single mothers, or the homeless. Sure, the economy’s in trouble and life isn’t exactly a walk in the park, but appreciate what you have now. Who knows what you’ll have in the future? JB, Driver, SI
Why am I getting naked? I don’t think this is an inappropriate question to be asking. Why are you making me get naked? I get it, you’re a doctor. This is a doctor’s office. Cool. But I’m getting a tetanus shot. All you really need is my arm and if I do suffer from some rare allergic reaction I’m pretty sure you could rip my clothes off quickly enough – I’m wearing a t-shirt. Or I was, before you made me get naked, put on a hospital gown, and walk past the waiting room a hundred times while you shuffled me from room to room. This, I feel, was unwarranted. I’m not downplaying the importance of your profession, but they give flu shots at the drug store. And I’m pretty sure getting naked in a Duane Reade is a chargeable offense. Dylan, Sporting Goods, Astoria
To the woman at the Bloomingdales’ fragrance counter: When I walked into your store, I had intended to purchase gloves, and maybe a scarf or two. What I did NOT expect, intend, or desire was to be gangbanged by a myriad of floral scents that, while maybe pleasant individually, combine to create an olfactory nightmare of monstrous proportions. I appreciate that, while I find it unpleasant, it is your job, but until being a cheap Parisian prostitute is MY job, I ask that you keep your fragrance to yourself. Anna, Designer, L train
Woah! You really think my ass looks great in these pants? Thanks, creepy man riding a bike on 7th Avenue! You made my day! You know, I was feeling really self conscious about my body today, so it was so nice for you to reassure me that you’d love to do a lot of dirty things to my behind. I was starting to give up on men! Seriously, I was! I was about to become a bona-fide lesbian until you came along and restored my faith in humanity. You know, you really should continue riding around the city screaming obscenities at women. We’re all pretty down on ourselves and you really know how to make a lady feel attractive by sexually accosting her. And after you finish doing some more of your groundbreaking work, how about you jump off a bridge and die? Because now that I think about it, that would make me feel a whole lot better. Sandra, Bartender, Bushwick
Stop screaming. You’re indoors. It makes me very anxious. We fully understand that the train has stopped. We’re all riding on it. So please keep your comments to yourself so we can maintain decorum on this cramped subway car. When you scream things, don’t you see that no one is responding? So why do you keep talking? If everyone took a note from your book, we’d all start screaming out of frustration, and then things would get violent, and then there would be bloodshed. Do you want this train car to erupt in bloodshed? No, you don’t. You just want the train to move like everyone else, so please stop screaming and keep your opinions to yourself, I just need to get to Union Square in one piece, ok? Thanks. Asher, Finance, Washington Heights
People have got to stop urinating on my street. And no, I’m not talking about homeless people and I’m not talking about drunk college kids either. I’m talking about normal people like you or I, people who, in their proper state of mind, have made the decision to step up against a building, zip down their flies, and urinate in public. And I live on the Upper East Side. What’s worse, just the other day I saw a mother stop her car, remove her little boy, and instruct him to piss on the side of my building. In broad daylight. And he DID. Look, we’ve all had those moments where we have to pee so badly that our teeth hurt. But we live in New York City. It’s not like it’s 5 miles until the next rest stop. There’s a Starbucks on a corner. There’s a restaurant across the street. Hell, my building has a lobby bathroom for christ’s sake, use it, I wouldn’t mind. I don’t think I’m asking for too much. Let your puppies pee freely, just do me a favor and curb yourselves. Thanks. Esther, Risk Analyst, Upper East Side
The biggest mistake mankind has ever made was creating ESPN. Don’t even tell me you’ve never been shunted aside because there is unlimited ESPN in your household. You slave away all day long and come home to your man, maybe looking forward to that ‘hello’ kiss or even just sitting down for a relaxing glass of wine. But, no! You walk home and there is some RANDOM fucking sporting event that has just invaded his mind and has him sitting in the recliner looking like he’s just had a lobotomy. And it’s never fucking ending! There’s baseball, basketball, soccer, golf, tennis, football, hockey, not to mention the BWOT’s, or the big-waste-of-time’s; poker, horse racing, gymnastics, NASCAR, martial arts, rugby, lacrosse, and the fucking spelling bee! ESPN has every fucking trick in the book to brainwash our men into sitting in front of the TV like a cracked-out junkie. I could start a lap dance in fucking pasties and a g-string and STILL have him watching water polo. Ladies, reclaim your power! Stick it to the man! I want to watch a fucking chick flick and nothing’s going to get in my way. And that’s why ESPN hate’s parental controls, like the one I set to block that shit two days ago. I can’t wait to go home tonight and see his face. Sucka! Christiana, Hospitality, Astoria
I don’t understand hipsters. I have a tattoo. I listen to Ingrid Michaelson. I even have a ukulele (it was a gift) so by all intents and purposes I’m a fully fledged member of hipster society. But this obsession with “shabby chic” is just something I will never get on board with. I live in Williamsburg and that shit is expensive! Seriously, I have a heart attack every time the rent bill comes and it’s been the same every month. Then I go to the Peruvian restaurant around the block from me and order “peasant soup.” Peasant soup. For 22 dollars. Where are these peasants and how can I get in on the action?! And it’s not just the soup. It seems that every shop, boutique, and cafe I go into looks like it’s been through the Chernobyl explosion. I know that peeling paint, beat-up furniture, and exposed light bulbs look “quaint” but when you’re paying a small fortune for rent every month I want that shit blinged out in gold. Seriously, for what I’m paying, they should lay out carpets on the streets of The Burg and shower every man, woman, and child with rose petals and cold hard cash. Because I’m about this close to moving to Iowa. Cheap rent, inexpensive utilities, and I can be as “shabby chic” as my little heart desires. Desiree, Marketing, Williamsburg
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