Je suis troublée.

Pick up your feet.

It’s not 6:30 a.m.

You’re not going to the kitchen to get some coffee.

Pick up your feet.

Uggs are not that heavy.

You are just lazy.

What are those?

Chanel sunglasses?

Pick up your feet.

Get off the phone.

Why are you even going to class?

Daddy is going to get you a job anywhere you want one anyway.

You don’t need to go.

Then I wouldn’t have to hear you dragging your Uggs.

I wouldn’t have to hear you talking to your girlfriends.

I wouldn’t have to see your Chanel sunglasses, your Uggs, your stretch pants, your Northface fleece.

Go home.

Get drunk.

You want to do that anyway.

Pick up your feet!

I’m not sorry.

I am not sorry when I see fat people.

I am not sorry when they have fat friends.

I am not sorry when they walk in front of me.

Slowly.

I am not sorry when they take up the whole sidewalk.

Or walkway.

Or aisle.

Excuse me.

I would like to walk faster than you.

But I cannot, because not only are you fat,

you’re inconsiderate.

You won’t let me pass because you are a middle-aged white woman with bad hair and ugly fleece vests.

You think you’re more important than I am.

You work at the bank.

I’m not sorry.

I’m angry.

I shouldn’t be subjected to shoveling my sidewalk or the stairs.

Do you know who I am?

I’m a young lady. Young ladies do not shovel sidewalks.

Either you shovel sidewalks or you wear lipstick and high heels.

I wear lipstick and high heels. I do not shovel sidewalks.

I wish Sam Elliott would ride up on his stallion, wearing a kerchief, and just scoop me up and take me somewhere for hot cocoa near a fireplace. And promise me. Promise me when I get back, he’d have someone take care of that shoveling.

Please, Sam Elliott, come get me. I’m waiting.  It’s cold.