Bitch

Why do you come in here twice a week, you with the badly dyed hair, you with the strong Bronx accent, you with the hideous veins in your forehead, you with the attitude problem? You come in here and you are rude to me. You have been shipping with me (that's me, personally, not the company) for 9 months now! You know I have yet to mess up a single one of your packages. Ever. And yet, still, you watch my every move, speak to me as though I were six, double check the addresses each time I type them, and generally treat me as though I were an ill-bred moron.
Your husband rolls his eyes at you, did you know that? He does. He is obviously scared to death of you and would never do it when you could see, but when you can't, oh boy does he get annoyed at you. He also seems to think that you're a bitch. He never smiles at me when you're around. When you're not, he smiles, laughs at my jokes, relaxes a bit, doesn't seem to think I need to be reminded of every little detail over and over. He doesn't even check over my addresses, despite being one of the most neurotic people it's ever been my displeasure to meet.

You, though. You, madam, are evil. Just because I make less than $40K a year, I get to be a total non-entity in your life. I get to bear the brunt of your horrid little life. Your unhappy marriage (I bet he's cheating on you, or soon will be), your fading youth, your "headaches". I am here, and I work in customer service, so I get to hear it. You know what? One day, all of us worker bees will snap, and then, you evil wench, you will get what's coming to you.