We all do things we aren't proud of, but not all of us have the integrity to apologize. Kassia cleanses her soul and makes amends to those she wronged this week.
To the worker who replaced my apartment windows:
I'm sorry that despite your having replaced an entire wall and two windows, when it rained my wall leaked in the same exact place that it did before your work. You were not happy when you saw this. I get that your inability to stave off Mother Nature offended your sense of masculinity. It should have worked. You are man. You replace wall with new wall. Put in shiny new windows. Grunt! Then bad water ruined new wall. I get that this sucks. Because now you have to a) re-replace the wall and b) start using subjects, pronouns and articles in your sentences. Both of those things takes a lot of time. Me sorry.
To my father:
I'm sorry you are not good at e-mail. Being good at e-mail would have prevented you from accidentally sorting your e-mail from oldest to newest, thereby displaying a forward from me of flight information for a trip to St. Kitts with my ex-boyfriend. Being good at e-mail would have prevented you from re-forwarding me that forward with the single line e-mail, "What's this all about?" Being good at e-mail would have prevented you from probably asking my mom "Why is Kassia going on a trip with Ex-Boyfriend?" in the same disappointed tone you used when you thought one of us was sneaking pulls from the Vermouth in high school. All of this could have been prevented if you were good at e-mail. But this does open the door for me to deliver all bad news to you via e-mail and hope you don't stumble across it until 2015.
To my spin teacher:
I'm sorry that when you asked the class "How are we feeling?!!" everyone else yelled "Good!" and I responded "Your music sucks!" I am not usually a participant in any call-and-response during athletic activities. First, I am typically too out of breath to yell anything. Second, I'm uncomfortable and I don't want to be here. Don't make me be a cheerleader. Because if I'm going to be a cheerleader, then I'm gonna want cool uniforms and a guaranteed bye to States. And then once we're at States, I'm gonna want to be the one flying in the basket toss. And you can't promise that and I don't have the skills anymore. So that's why I usually don't do the call-and-respond stuff. But on this particular day I was so annoyed with your playlist that I used the little air left in my lungs to tell you your music sucked. I know that was mean of me. What can I say? It's the cheerleader in me.
To Dan Stevens, AKA Matthew Crawley from Downton Abbey:
I'm sorry for not putting my best foot forward when
I'm sorry my name ("Kassia") is hard. It's not hard-hard, but it's different-hard. Like learning to eat an artichoke. When I meet new people they generally do one of two things in re: my name. They either pronounce it incorrectly with confidence, or they swallow it like they're speaking a foreign language. I'm fine with either of these. I'll gladly correct you and/or show you where la biblioteca is. But what I can't stand is when people choose a new name for me. Especially when that new name is Carissa. Carissa is the name you gave your protagonist in the "novel" you "wrote" in Fourth Grade. It's not a woman's name. If you call me Carissa, you do so because it's easier for you. And that tells me a lot about you. You're also the type to use the towel rack as a railing to help pull yourself off the toilet, even if it pulls the towel rack out of the wall. On planes, you probably use the seat in front of you as a personal hoisting handle when you get up to go to the bathroom, not caring that it sends the person sitting in that seat flying. Okay, so all my examples involve people getting up from a seated position and generally involve going to the bathroom. But you get my point. I think you're selfish. And if you have a problem with that, you can call my office and ask for Carissa. Because I hate conflict.
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