Well, that’s it. The world is over. My mother is trying to “friend” me on Facebook. We had a good run people, but it’s time to cast off earthly possessions, climb into the hills, and wait for the Beast to rise and the earth to be rent in twain. If you need me, I’ll be cleansing my profile with holy fire and praying for intercession from Saint Jude.

Dear Time Warner Cable,

As a longstanding customer, I wanted to take the opportunity to write you a little note in praise of your excellent service. Now, given some of our recent phone conversations, you may be tempted to read just a smidgen of sarcasm in what I am about to say, but I want to assure you that I mean every word from the bottom of my rapidly-shrinking little raisin heart.

CILANTRO: It is the Devil’s Weed. It corrupts everything it touches. My friend CW has attempted to tell me that I have some kind of “genetic disorder” of which the distaste for cilantro is symptomatic. ALLEGEDLY, just as the ability to smell asparagus in your urine or cyanide in general is genetic, your taste (or lack thereof) for cilantro is genetic. Some people like it, some people think it tastes like soap. Here’s the thing: I don’t think it tastes like soap. I know exactly what it tastes like. It tastes like moldy sunshine, and it is an abomination. My genetics are fine; your gross, herbal scourge is fucked up.

Hocus Bogus

Rejections are like snowflakes: plentiful, and no two exactly alike. (Except the ones that are printed out on cards and duplicated!) I have certainly seen my share of them. From the blunt (“No thanks!”) to the apologetic (“We’re not accepting any new submissions right now!”) to the let’s-just-be-friends complimentary backhand (“This is well-written, but it’s not what we’re looking for right now!”) to the whimsically sublime (I once received my own cover letter back with a brief and illegible note scrawled in the margin – to the tune of “No” – like a corpse dumped off on my doorstep with its own genitals stuffed in its mouth.) I have seen them all.