WHILE I'm already being a bitch, maybe I should talk about my work a little bit.

No, ma'am, we won't furnish your house for you. Get some milk crates and work your way up, just like the college kids do. Just because you have to pay at the thrift store doesn't mean it's going to be any more that $15 for a bed, probably. If you want to hang up on me, you can go fuck yourself on a bare floor.

No, sir, lying to me about the last time you were here won't get you food assistance quicker. Actually, you won't get any at all. Can no one read the "EMERGENCY FOOD PANTRY ONLY" sign? That means you every-six-month users have to go hit up the rest of the pantries in town. What? You already used them all and you have no food in the house? Well I guess you shouldn't have spent everything that's not food stamps on cigarettes and scratch tickets. And stop having kids, for the love of god.

No, Tom, I don't want to talk politics with you. I don't want to plot to make my Republican mother freak out. I have to live with her. I don't want to hear about your awesome sound system, I don't want to borrow your DVDs, I don't want to debate the Stones vs. the Beatles. I want you to leave my office.

No, creepy guys from the soup kitchen, I don't want to talk to you. At all. Please get out of my office. Please don't hit on me while I'm in line for lunch. Just stop it.


......*breathe*


Okay. I feel better now.


Dear reasonable people in actual need,
Sorry about all those assholes who make me snappy and suspicious. I like you. I really do.

Love,
your friendly Salvation Army secretary.