seriously stop it, christmas cookies.

clearly you think this movie is funny, christmas cookie. you know how i know? because you KEEP SAYING SO IN THE MIDDLE OF THE MOTHERFUCKING MOVIE THEATER. "this movie is hilarious." "omg, this is so funny." didn't you watch the part in the beginning where the popcorn told you to shut the fuck up?

what do you want from me, hanukkah gelt?

shoving me isn't going to make the door open any faster. you are dead to me.

step back, sangria.

unless you're the mothereffing big bad wolf, don't huff and puff at me. clearly i can't move any faster because there is literally A WALL OF PEOPLE IN FRONT OF ME. if you weren't so busy being passive aggressive, you'd have noticed ALL OF THE PEOPLE.

that's what you get, ravioli.

do you know why you missed your bus stop? because you've been on the stupid phone all morning. ALL MORNING. all i've heard all morning is you on the phone. all of the talking in the world was done by you.

we're not friends, duck l'orange.

the waiter seating us next to each other, practically on each other's laps, isn't my fault. i don't even know you. so stop pretending like we're friends, asking me how my meal is, and telling me the guy you're with is a "friend from new york" and "not a boyfriend." it's awkward.

are you effing kidding me, double down?

what in the actual fuck are you wearing? you do realize that you are in public and that i'd say about 90% of the population IS NOT BLIND AND CAN SEE YOU.

wait your stupid turn, jelly doughnut.

i'm not digging through this sale rack for my fucking health; i'm digging through because everything is 50% off. can you wait one stupid minute for me to move over before you shove your scrawny self into where i'm standing? this sale rack is meant to be shared. move your skinny arms out of my way, before i take this hanger and smack you in the head with it.

stop complaining, honey nut cheerios.

being anonymous on the internet doesn't really give you the right to be a dick, yet here you are, being a dick. hope your computer crashes, dick.

i can't take it anymore, chicken kebab.

you do realize that everyone can see your facebook posts, right?

ok, just checking.

you got what you deserve, shrimp cocktail.

do you know why you tripped up the stairs at the train station? because you're an overachieving douchebag. only overachieving douchebags walk up those million steps at 8 a.m., rather than take the escalator.

why why why why, pretzels?

there aren't too many perks to flying southwest airlines. so when i get on the plane and get a window seat and there doesn't seem to be too many other people boarding, what on earth would make you think that sitting DIRECTLY NEXT TO ME is the proper use of space? don't you know the rules? i sit by the window, you sit by the aisle, and we leave the middle open! the middle seat stays open until the last minute!

move your arms, schnitzel.

i understand that you hate being at this communal table, but please know that EVERYBODY hates being at this communal table. shut the fuck up and find something not complainy to talk about, all passive aggressively and loud.

it's that time of year, turkey.

put your food issues aside, and celebrate overeating. happy thanksgiving, everyone!

don't take it personally, chicken cordon bleu.

your breath makes me want to vom. go pop a tic-tac and then come back and talk to me.

ouch, wasabi peas.

i see right through you, you slut. i'm not fooled by your cutesy facebook status updates ("in a perfect world we'd all get what we want all the time. then we'd complain about it, LOL :)"). your smiley emoticons do nothing to hide your true, asshole self.

i can't, pork chops and apple sauce.

how in the actual fuck do you think you can fit onto this bus that already has 400 people in it? you're carrying a ginormous purse and pushing a STROLLER. you're taking up more room than those seven hipsters at the front of the bus. wait for the next one!

welcome to how the world works, sourdough jack.

if i text you, don't call me back. if i wanted to actually talk to your voice, i would've called you in the first place.

yuck gross, chicken noodle soup.

maybe it's time you learned how to cover your mouth when you cough and sneeze? you're only probably in your 50s. it's never too late to learn something as stupidly easy and obvious as that.

it's bad, fried chicken and doughnuts.

stop looking at me all creepy, you greaseball. trust, there's nothing under the 10 layers i'm wearing that you want or that wants you back.

oh my, big mac.

i see how you work, you evil temptress. just when i think i'm out of your grasp, you sneak back into my thoughts and recapture my heart. well, you win this time. but know that i'm onto you.

not so fast, turkey sandwich.

don't let people walk all over you, turkey sandwich. stand up for yourself every once in a while. nobody likes a doormat.

why, thank you, chickpea salad.

your mom really raised you right. it was so polite of you to hold the door open for me as we walked into the building. especially seeing as how i was RIGHT behind you. thanks!

were you raised in a barn, gatorade?

ewww, could you wipe the treadmill after you're done using it? it looks like a fucking water balloon filled with sweat exploded all over this thing. there are paper towel dispensers on every single wall in this stupid germ-infested gym. use one. or 12.

i can't believe how rude you are, buttered roll.

in order to get by me, you had two options: politely say excuse me, or shove past like a fat little bulldozer. clearly you chose the more annoying of the two options, or i wouldn't be writing this.

stand back, hot pocket.

you're literally standing so close, that if you moved your leg even 1 millimeter, you'd be sharing my pants with me. and that's not a good thing.

just stop it, potstickers.

listen, lady: people understand how empty seats on the bus work. if they want to sit, they'll fucking sit. you don't have to keep patting the empty seat next to you to let them know that they can fucking sit. they're not blind.

i don't even know what you're supposed to be, vodka cranberry.

just because a costume exists in the universe does not mean you need to make it sexy. i get that you're probably not actually a slut, and this is the one time a year that you can show off your body or whatever, but "sexy spongebob" and "sexy sea turtle" aren't actually things. it's really weird.

i'm about to punch your lights out, halloween candy.

look, doucheface, we're all annoyed that this line is 10 miles long. and i get that your children are annoying. but being a loud ass bitch and pretending to offer your kids to everyone who passes by isn't actually that funny. it's lame. and in 10 years, they're going to need therapy, so suck on that.

you're about to die, angel hair pasta.

i'm swatting away at my arm, as though i'm surrounded by mosquitoes, when i notice that it's your long ass fucking hair brushing up against me. your stranger hair just molested my arm. you'd better figure out how to get it off me in a hurry, or i'm going to put on some gloves and rip it out.

i'm embarrassed, carne asada burrito.

you make living in this city hard.

you're so lazy, macaroons.

life tip: when i write "let me know!" at the end of an e-mail, it generally means you should write me back and let me know. that's why i said "let me know."

you're an embarrassment, kool-aid.

did you go to elementary school for even 1 second? why don't you know the difference between your and you're? that's like, remedial life 101. i suggest you commit it to memory, like all the other third-graders in the universe.

you are so inappropriate, little debbie chocolate cupcake.

god why are you making out with each other all sensually like that? you're on a train, standing, with a million people around you. have some dignity and quit making me vomit all over the guy next to me.

don't even go there, camembert.

you're basically 300 years old. never should the words "twitter effect" pass through your lips. it's weird.

i don't get it, charcuterie.

i really, really need you to not stand right there because you're definitely standing way too close. you aren't just in my comfort zone, but you are actually setting up camp within my comfort zone. like, with a sleeping bag and baked beans and a guitar and campfire songs. i hate it.

nice, peach cobbler.

here's a life lesson: in a crowded parking lot, once you pass a car that's about to pull out, that space isn't yours anymore. don't try to back up as if i'm not 1 inch behind you with my blinker on.

i'm shocked, neapolitan ice cream.

how is it that you haven't been fired yet?

you're not that great, taquitos.

i don't care who this new girlfriend of yours is. i'll talk to you whenever i want to, because i was here first. get over yourselves.

i can't stand you, spinach artichoke dip.

you're rude. and you're whiney. and all i want to do is beat you up. this relationship isn't healthy for either of us.

just no, bbq potato chips.

this is the meat counter at safeway. this isn't a fucking one-on-one session with a personal chef. why would the guy behind the counter know anything about anything other than meat? if you want gourmet, go to whole foods.

use your brain, banana cream pie.

what is it about me standing here behind the lady who is paying that indicates i may not be waiting in line? why do you have to ask if i'm waiting in line? what the fuck else would i be doing here?

shut your mouth, pad thai.

if you ask me one more fucking time if i need any help in your stupid store, i'm burning the entire thing to the ground.

lay OFF, stuffed pizza.

remember when you called me last week and i said i wasn't interested in buying whatever it was you were trying to sell me? why are you acting surprised when i'm telling you the same thing today? take me off your fucking list, and stop calling me.

why do you think i care, vodka and grapefruit juice?

stop acting too cool for this train and like everyone is in your way, because your headphones aren't that great, and i can hear that you're listening to destiny's child. DESTINY'S CHILD.

you're so rude, biscuits and gravy.

you know why i ran into you right now? because you stopped short in the middle of the fucking sidewalk. next time pull over, ass face.

completely unnecessary, chili dog.

dear sir, just because san francisco does not have a law against public nudity, does not mean that your body is all of a sudden a wonderland for all to behold. for the love of god, put some fucking pants on.

manners, peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

here's a quick lesson in parking etiquette, dickface: if you're standing around your car, and it's unclear that you just got there, and i'm sitting in my car with the blinker on, it wouldn't kill you to wave and let me know you're not leaving. don't just stand there looking at me like a piece of shit, while you talk to your friends and put crap in the trunk. that's how tires get slashed.

i can smell you, funnel cake.

i don't understand why me standing here doesn't alert you to the fact this standing place has already been taken. by me. this train isn't that crowded. why are you 1 inch away from my eyelashes, you goon?

is this going to become a routine, muffuletta?

you do realize that you're living in an apartment building and there is an apartment below you, right? you don't? well that's fucking obvious, by the way you stomp around all the time. i don't get how your ankles aren't broken by now. it sounds like you're trying to kick a hole through the floor.

no problem, clam chowder in a bread bowl.

i get it that you're a tourist and you don't get how to move and walk and not be in my way, but if you can do that without being a complete dick about it, i wouldn't hate you as much.