Google

Dear Google,

I love you. Really, I do. But now that you're ditching Wave (good move, btw, since nobody could actually figure out a real use for it), how about dedicating some of those resources to some of your Gmail issues.

Most importantly, I want to be able to choose which email address a contact has should be the default one. Associated with that, I want distribution lists to use whatever the default email address is for a particular contact at the time I *use* the distribution list--*not* when I created it. Oh, and can you help me understand why sometimes the email address I want to use doesn't even come up at all when I type a contact's name in the To: field of an email?

I don't think that's a lot to ask, is it?

Love,
Kate

Jerks

Dear Jerks,

You're welcome for the cupcakes. Not that you said "thank you." Or even really acknowledged the reason for them in the first place. Her name is Kit, btw. She's worked here longer than almost all of you, and I have not yet quite figured out how we will continue to operate without her assistance.

But you're welcome for the cupcakes.

Love,
Kate

p.s. Note that those who stayed and played games and actually acknowledged Kit's last day are excluded from the "jerk" label.

Dear Cancer, Part II

Dear Cancer,

Take that, bitch!

Regards,
Kate

Dear Chicago

Dear Everyone in Chicago,

If you are wearing a Blackhawks jersey this week, you should be subjected to sponaneous pop quizzes on the street. If you cannot, at any given moment, not only name three current players on the team, but also at least one player from three years ago (thanks, Mike, for that suggestion), then you should be punched in the face and forced to replace your Blackhawks jersey with a tshirt that says, "I am a bandwagony poser."

Love,
Kate

Cancer

Dear Cancer,

Fuck you. No, seriously: Fuck. You.

You took my mother, my grandmother, and my grandfather. You tried to get your grubby paws on my aunt. You've taken far too many other people in my inner and outer circles. You're still trying to sink your teeth into my brother-in-law.

And now you think you can have Trish?

Think again.

Go find somebody else's loved ones to fuck with for a change. Better yet, go crawl under a rock and leave everyone the hell alone. You are not welcome here. We will not let you bully us. We hereby declare that you are done. No more.

You can't have Trish.

You can't have Joe.

Fuck you.

Television, Redux

Dear Television (again),

I stand corrected. Television programming should consist of the following: 30 minutes of How I Met Your Mother and 23 hours and 30 minutes of Jon Stewart and Ricky Gervais talking. Please make this happen.

Love,
Kate

Television

Dear Television,

Just stop trying. You have reached your pinnacle with How I Met Your Mother.

Love,
Kate