Dear Botoxed Prune-Faced Old Crone,

I'm fairly certain you were more than aware that you cut in line, in front of me, at the Independence Costco today. You, in your fugly orange flowered wrap around skirt and matching shirt, and enough makeup on to spackle my bathroom, just walked right in front of the strawberry blonde with the noticeable limp. You were carrying your big-assed box of four items, apparently felt that because you had less, you deserved to go before me. Or maybe it was because you thought you were dressed better. Or maybe you're just one of those people who think your better than everyone. Maybe you happen to live in Leawood.

For whatever reason, you dared not look in my general direction, probably because you could feel my Glare of Death penetrating the back of your old, wrinkled neck. Had you just looked and offered an apology, or even the lame, "I didn't notice you there" excuse, I could have let it slide. But no, you just stood there, ignoring the woman who looked very pained and annoyed because she had a severely hurting leg, and had run out of pain meds two days prior.

I almost opened up a can of verbal whoopass on you, but out of respect for my mother (who was with me) I didn't. I could had made a scathing remark about me deferring to snooty old women because their time on earth is limited and are always in a hurry, but I didn't.

I also didn't say anything because I noticed of the four items you had purchased, three of which were dog treats. (A jar of peanut butter for the weekends was noticeably absent.) I realized that all you have to go home to are your little yapping dogs named Fifi, Fluffy, Sugar Poo, and Buffy. And that you probably were married at some point, but your husband got tired of being married to a snooty sea cow and ran off with his much more attractive secretary. At least she took it up the ass.

As you literally hauled ass out of the store (probably to avoid me going postal on your wrinkled ass), my Mother looked at me and said with the sage wisdom of someone who has been on the planet longer than me, "What a bitter old bitch!"

So, have fun with your dogs. Meanwhile, I will bide my time and wait for you to come in with some botched plastic surgery or something old-people-related. Pay back's a bitch and I am RN. That's means I possess the knowledge to make you have a really bad day.

Angel of Mercy, my ass.

Sincerely,
Heather