Before you ask, no, I’m not pregnant . I’m just fat and I have the world’s worst time trying to find jeans that fit. While you guys are reading this post, I’ll be making YET ANOTHER trip to the mall. If I had known this was what I’d be doing with my Fridays off, I probably would have decided to work instead. Yeah, maybe not. But at least I get to spend time with my cousin, who will also serve as my debit card guardian during the trip.

Another week means another cluster of little things that piss me off. Enjoy this set of unsent letters, and feel free to compose your own in the comments!

Dear Old Navy,

Is there a reason why you made your Skinny Mini-Flare jeans in toddler sizes? Or are you hoping to make your customers depressed so they’ll spend more money? I read the reviews and ordered a size larger than normal, which was bad enough. But when I couldn’t pull them past my knees, I felt betrayed. It’s like you’ve forgotten all about the thousands of dollars I’ve given you over the years and moved on to people who still overspend. Now I have to use my effing time and gas to return the stupid jeans, then suffer the humiliation of trying on more jeans to find some that fit. I’m glad you have a maternity section - I have a feeling I’m going to need it.

You better be glad you have cheap flip flops, because that’s the only reason I still even talk to you. Sorry it has to be this way, but I’m officially changing my Facebook status to “it’s complicated.”

Love, Andrea

Dear Mother Nature,

Hey there! I hope this letter finds you doing well, though I have concerns that there is something seriously wrong with you. You see, today is September 2, and the high temperature is going to be 100°. Maybe you don’t have a problem with that, but I remember when I was a kid and we had this extra season between summer and winter. It was called fall. I really miss it.

Last Thanksgiving, I left the house in capris and a t-shirt because it was 77° outside. That night, I had to change into a sweater and jeans because the temperatures dropped into the 40s. A few days later we had our first snow of the year. Maybe I’m misreading the situation, but it seems like you’re messing with me. Are you some kind of sicko who likes watching people suffer? Or have I done something to offend you? I don’t understand why else you would just do away with an entire season like that.

If something doesn’t change here, I’m going to get a shrimp boat and scream at you like Lt. Dan did in Forrest Gump. Except he was screaming at God. And he’s all like, “Bring it!” then he and Forrest caught about 20 million shrimp and they didn’t have to worry about money no more. OMG is that what’s going on here? Are you sending me subtle hints that I’m about to become rich and mow grass at the local high school for free? Maybe I’ll shut up then. But seriously, a little fall weather would be nice. Especially if I’m going to be driving around on a lawnmower.

Love, Andrea

Dear Former Employees,

I try not to be too vulgar, but I’m just going to come right out and say it. STOP. FUCKING. CALLING. ME.

I’m sorry you hate your new boss. I hate that he’s a 40 year-old douche canoe (thanks Bloggess) with Katy Perry’s “Firework” as a ringback tone, and I appreciate your anger at the way he is changing every single thing I worked to improve while I was there. But I have to be honest - that job sucks so bad, you’re probably lucky to have an idiot like him as your boss instead of a maniac criminal on work release.

The fact is, I don’t care about the drama of that hellhole anymore. I can’t spend my life worrying about it. My former boss could have offered me more money or fewer hours to get me to stay, but he refused. Because he LIKES Douchey McJazzHands. They will be announcing their engagement any day now. And unless I find a way to grow a penis, I will never be appreciated OR properly compensated in my old role.

Please, let me move on and enjoy my newfound freedom. It’s not you, it’s me. Okay, I’m lying - it’s totally you.

Love, Andrea

Dear Paypal,

Every time I want to use the money people send me, you charge me a fee, which results in some weird ass balance ending in 17 cents. I mean, if you’re going to rob me blind, could you at least do it in whole dollar amounts? And just take it off the top instead of teasing me - I’m tired of thinking I got $50 (because that’s what the notification says) when it’s actually $47.62 or whatever.

And what’s up with making me switch to a Premier account with a debit card because of the “high volume of deposits and withdrawals” to my account? Um, excuse me, but I was under the impression that’s what I was supposed to do with my PayPal account. Otherwise why would your website say things like “Request Money” and “Withdraw Money” at the top? Maybe I don’t want another debit card. Maybe I’m happy having a personal account because it feels, you know, personal. I have never used the word “premier” to describe myself and I’m not about to start, so why should you be able to?

You really need to get your shit together, PayPal. Someone will come up with a better system, and you’ll be hanging out with Myspace watching all the cool kids dance at the prom. Not a threat, just a warning.

Love, Andrea