To dear the observing aliens,

I know our ways may be confusing to you, but our habit of congregating in public places, consuming toxins and then playing with our phones instead of actually talking to one another is strange to us too...

Dear social life,

I'm bored with you now.

To dear mythbusters

Can you please test whether or not you get better phone service by holding your phone to your head? I'm pretty sure you do, since you get a lot better range on the car remotes when they're at your head, but it would be nice to know for sure. Also, it would stop me from looking like a knob by doing it every time I need something to send or upload.

To dear Anna, Meagan and Brenton.

Although I won't tell it to your face, I am so fucking pissed off at the lot of you right now. If it was all going to be so fucking hard why did we come in the first place? Why am I the one that has to tiptoe around and keep all of you from having your little breakdowns but how I'm feeling and what I want to do is completely disregarded? Why did we come to Adelaide to party and then sit at home on a Saturday night? Why didn't we just drive home tonight instead of spending an extra $200 on a hotel room? We left the show at 9.30, we could be in Penola by now, and you'd all be getting your lovely nights sleep in your beds at home ready for tomorrow, when you have to start work at FIVE IN THE EVENING. Instead you've all gone and whinged about how tired you are and how you've got no money, after you went and spent a couple of hundred at the show, and gone to bed.

What a fucking lovely evening out this has been.


...I get that some aspects of your lives suck, I do. I spend all my time being understanding, and mediating, and helping through your problems. But seriously, harden the fuck up.

Your friend, Sara.

To my one and only throat,

You really need to make up your mind. I'm quite alright with you being sore if my voice goes away and then I don't have to go to work but if you're just gunna be sore and let my voice keep working, well, that's no fun.

Regards, Sara.

Dear Quilt,

How about, I go have a shower, and when I come back, you miraculously have sewn your last three seams yourself? Is that cool with you? I'd really appreciate it, I hate joining the last few big bits together.

Thanks, Sara

Dear Ezyreg,

Not only am I forced to give you 143 of my hard earned dollars tonight, I have to remember to have another go at it in an hour's time because you're currently unavailable due to website maintenance.

I hate you.

Sara.

Dear internet,

While I think it's utterly wonderful that you can download me some movies at 790kBps for my sister to watch while she's off on a cruiseship, could you maybe do it at 780kBps, and leave me with enough bandwidth to load a page?

Regards Sara.

P.S. Yes, I do know there is a setting in bittorrent that allows me to cap my combined upload and download speed. I just can't be bothered.

P.P.S. Fine, I'll do it.

Dear fellow users of my toilet,

I understand that smells exist, even though I can't experience them, but surely they can't be worse than doing your business in sub-zero temperatures, which is what it feels like I'm doing when you've left the window in the toilet opened. Brrrr.

Regards, Sara.


*there is no * above, but I wish I could put one below where it says random shit, so I could then put a star that said literally.

Dear a certain facebook (soon to be ex) friend,

No, I will not like your photo for you on facebook. What you're encouraging is not a photography competition, it's a popularity contest. Stop filling my news feed and my inbox with crap.

Regards, Sara

Dear HP,

Please do not send me an email asking me if I would like to upgrade my laptop to a newer model, include in the info the words "Latest Touchsmart" and then not have anywhere at all on your actual website a new, or even for that matter, old, touchsmart for me to looks at. I do not want a pavilion, or even a mini, unless it has a touchscreen. Get one, email me back, we'll see how I'm feeling.

Regards, Sara.

Dear Blogger (It's me again),

You said you were gunna post that post I wrote last night. There I was thinking noone had commented cause I was being a grumpy bum and whinging about the medicines that make me breathe, and it turns out you never even posted it.

Next time, when you randomly schedule a post to post in 5 minutes time, I will check that it has actually posted.

The trust is gone.

I'm sorry it has to be this way.
Sara.

Dear Bigpond,

Why are you sucking so much arse tonight? I just want to check my usage so I can talk about it in my other blog, but instead, you're refusing to load so I'm having to post here instead.

Thanks for nothing, (Except all the mythbusters and the dozen or so movies I got last night)

Sara.

Dear Blogger,

Why did you do make that last post suddenly become all caps? Yes, I'm very cross about how cold it is in front of the doors at work, but that doesn't mean I want my opinions on the matter shouted. If anything, this blog is more of a muttered under my breath type of complaining. I'll let it go, this time, but don't be doing it again, d'you hear?

To Dear the people who designed the new fronatge for the Mt Gambier Woolies,

I hate you. I hope your heater breaks this winter and you're freezing cold at least 4 nights a week for next 5 months. Because thanks to you, and your stupid decision to move the wind blocker 3 feet east so it now blocks no wind whatsoever, I'm probably gunna die of hypothermia while working in a supermarket.

Thanks a bloody lot.

To dear bloggers that spend more time advertising than blogging,

You really, really piss me off.

Regards, Sarawiththerealblog.

To Dear The guy in the Piece of Shit Supra,

You really should have respected Taylor. If you had of, instead of sitting next to us at the traffic lights revving your stupid, pathetic, gutless engine, we wouldn't have felt the need to wallop your pathetic, needy arse while pulling away from the traffic lights.

To Dear The Kiwi Guy Behind the Bar at Bar 108,

Thankyou for being nice. Thankyou for having the exact same conversation with me that I had hoped in my head that we would have while I was sitting out in the car quietly crapping myself that it had all turned to shit. Thankyou for having $4.50 cruisers, and thankyou for letting me have three of them in a half an hour: because of you I've just tonight learned that speed of drinking is the key to avoiding the heartburn.

Kind Regards, Sara

Dear Writers and Producers of White Collar,

You call that a fucking ending? I've been gagging for this episode the entire damn week, I yelled at bigpond repeatedly when it took forever to download and you give me that? What the shit? You've let me down, but more than that, you've let yourselves down.

I hope you're happy.

Dear Facebook Users,

Quiet and quite are completely different words. Please make some effort to get them right.

Also, their, there and they're. Learn which one is which and use appropriately.

Regards, Sara.

To Dear Me...

Have a shower and go to bed. Stop quilting. It's late and you are sick. If you've only got as far as cutting and sorting your pieces it's unlikely you'll get the top finished tonight, even if it is only a little one. You don't have to start work till 7 tomorrow night. You can do it tomorrow. And yes, you're right, this movie seems a bit crap. You should have kept watching Rage. But it doesn't matter cause you're about to pack up and go to bed, yes?

With kind regards and an emphatic "Get Well Soon"
Sara.

Dear Loose Tobacco Buyers,

When you buy a pouch of tobacco, it is either 50 GRAMS or 30 GRAMS. Milligrams are teensy. You do not want to be paying 30 bucks for 50 milligrams - That is 1% of what I'm actually giving you. It's about 3 little flakes of leaf. So get it bloody right, before I refuse to sell to stupid people like you.

On the other hand, I'll give you even more, so you'll die of lung cancer faster and raise up a little bit the average intelligence of humanity as a whole.

Dear Mum,

Seriously? You're hacking my blogger so you can comment? Go get your own account.

Regards, Sara.

Dear Dishes,

Please make like a tree* and fuck off.*

*nope, I don't really get the connection either. But some quotes are like that - they make no sense but the people around you say them often enough that they rub off on you. But I'm sure you get the gist.

To Dear the people in the Mitsubishi ASX advert,

Having that car in the city does not make you look cool. It makes you look like a pair of douches. You do not need a big car to get down a narrow lane to get your bloody pizza. It's totally counter intuitive. Go buy a goddamn Swift.