Dear Craigslist Poster,

Please do not list your couch as having a "nice pattern" when it looks like this.

Dear "Actor in True Blood,"

You are not actually considered an "actor" on the show if you played the "cop who the girl pointed to in the bar scene," and also a "voiceover in episode 11." Yeah, not so much. Girls don't find it cool when you try to make your struggling acting career to be moreso by lying about it. Also, working as a "bartender on the side" at the Staples center, does not help your case. You may want to leave that entire part out. If you are going to lie about anything, it should definitely be the fact that you are a bartender at the Staples center.

Dear Cougars,

I have heard about your kind before, but I did not really understand what people meant when they would say "cougar" until I saw it with my own eyes. Is it written somewhere that single women over forty who go out to bars to pick up younger men must wear leopard print and tease their hair? Also, do you have to get so drunk so that when you end up "jokingly" humping the guy on the bar you can blame it on being hammered? Oh, and please don't hug me.

Dear Creator of the most terrible movie ever,

Although I can't take back the 98 wasted minutes of my life spent watching your terrible film, I can tell you how bad it actually was. I know that I didn't just hate your movie because I don't like horror films and I can't watch Bones after 10pm. But because it was truly bad. Even the guy behind me, who seemingly likes your genre, called it "garbage." I should have known, when we were buying our tickets, that this movie was going to be bad. The guy behind us was wearing a white lab coat and seemed quite anxious to get in. Me, being the normal human being that I am, thought he was a doctor, coming from a long day of work. When we asked him if he was going to see the movie, he snickered and said "what gave it away?" and then rolled his eyes. I asked, "the lab coat?" And he snickered again and rolled his eyes and said "yes!" OF COURSE his lab coat! How could I not get it? I wanted to say, why the f would I know that you wearing a white lab coat would give away the fact that you are going to see a particular movie? but instead, I just asked "why?" and he said "you haven't seen it before?" and i responded, "no. That's why we are in line. To go see it." I mean, how many people buying tickets to a movie have already seen the movie? I should have known right then. I should have also known when they microwaved my friend's hot dog that this was going to be bad. But, I am an open-minded person and I wanted to be nice since this was my friend's idea. We walked in at this part:
http://www.repo-opera.com/flash_home.html
My first instinct was to RUN. Oh my god. This is a joke. Wait, but maybe it will be good. Maybe it will have some redeeming qualities. Oh. Interesting. The first character is singing the introduction. He's got a good voice. Maybe this will be good. Oh. The second character is also singing, not such a good voice. Oh, great--people's heads are getting cut off and their organs are being torn out and people are singing about it. Meanwhile, the audience is laughing. At this point, ALL the characters are singing. Oh, I see. This is a musical. This is a horror movie musical. Oh, and to top it off, there is Paris Hilton. Just when I thought it couldn't get any better,, Paris Hilton is in it. So, yeah--creator of Repo Opera--why don't you just stick to playing Dungeons and Dragons on your computer. We could really do without your "creative" expression.

Dear Foxtail,

Thanks for having a fun party on Saturday. Watching each and every guy at the bar try to seal the deal with as many girls as possible was an...experience. You would think I’d be used to it by now, but this was unlike any other typical club night in LA. There was a palpable sense of immediacy in the air. A one-night-only mission. It was like watching lions mate on the Discovery Channel. As I watched the males prey on the females (and sometimes the other way around) I could almost hear the African drums pounding in the background. Everything was magnified. From the tiny little spit particles flying from the mouths of guys talking to girls to the groping hands and grinding on the dance floor. As the night wore on, the rooms became more crowded, sweatier and more “couples” made out aggressively against the walls. The not-so-lucky guys became more desperate, making quicker recoveries from rejection, heading directly to the next girl with panic-stricken looks on their faces. Not surprisingly, each time, the girls digressed in attractiveness.

At one point I was relieved to run into some old guy friends from school. Ahh, finally, people I could talk to, away from the madness of the Sahara. But I was quickly reminded of the very real-ness of the food chain when only four and a half seconds after "reuniting" with my friend, his buddy grabbed him by the collar, pulled him away and said "come here, check this one out." Right. I was getting in the way of a serious, single-focused mission. There was no time to chit-chat with old friends. If I wasn't participating, then I was intercepting.

The two most memorable characters of the evening had to be the two guys that were part of the Sopranos-look-a-like group sitting at a table off the dance floor wearing suits and ties. Yes. Full suits and ties. Two of them, apparently brothers, had a dance routine and rap-along to every song. Besides the regular rap hands they used during their raps, they had imaginary "props." My favorites were the air "lollipops" they waved in our faces for“Lollipop,” and the "guns" that they "shot" in the air for “Paperplanes.” Awesome.

But the creme de la creme, the HIGHLIGHT of my evening was the guy who approached me in the bathroom line and said: "You know, a lot of girls in here are blonde with big boobs. You don't have that. But you do have sex appeal. I like that." Wow. Was that supposed to be a compliment? Not that I think I have a huge rack or anything, but I also never considered them “not big” either. Not before that at least. So thanks. Also, since when did being brunette deserve a consolation speech? I'm glad that despite my "shortcomings" I have enough "sex appeal" for you to talk to me. Considering the fact that you just got rejected by the girl behind me in line, I'm flattered.

Anyway, Foxtail (fill in any other LA club here,) thanks for creating another memorable night in LA. I knew I could count on you to bring all the most ridiculous people of this city together in one place. You never let me down.

Dear Readers,

I am sorry I have abandoned you for so long. It is not for lack of interest but lack of material. I don't want to write just to write. I want to be inspired. Sure, there were people at Costco and Best Buy this weekend that I wanted to write a letter to, and yes, I imagine shooting off each and every car in front of me on the way to and from work every day...and of course that guy at the DNC party on election night who kept sneaking his hand on the lower part of my "back" deserves a letter...but nothing super inspiring.

To be honest, I was put off by a comment I received a few weeks ago (that I did not publish) that said this blog should be renamed "complain-town" or "negative-ville." So I was trying to avoid using this forum as a bitch-session. But then I thought how my favorite shows, movies and songs are all forms of bitch sessions about life. Take Office Space and The Office, the typical characters portrayed are essentially a form of bitching about the types of people who annoy us at work. Or John Mayer's lyrics in the song "Stop This Train," are: "so scared of getting older, I'm only good at being young..." and he gets Grammy buzz and sold out shows. So why am I not allowed to poke fun at the things I encounter throughout the day without being called "negative" or pegged as a "complainer"? The only recognition I get is from Amazon.com recommending that I buy the book How To Be An Adult every time I log on to my account.

Although I am not as talented as John Mayer or Steve Carrell, I am entitled to bitch about whatever I want on my own blog. And for those of you who want, I am asking you to join me. Give a piece of your mind to the guy whistling behind you in line at the grocery store, the salesman with the terrible breath, the random people who add you on facebook, or anyone else who you can't bitch to in person. Believe me, it feels good. Leave a comment on this blog, in letter format, (no profanity please) and if it's not terrible, I will publish it. Happy bitching.