The return of Gertrude.

Much to my surprise and dismay, Gertrude lives...


Dear Gertrude -

 First of all, you are a horrible old woman.  You've been a horrible old woman for as long as I've known you.  From what I've heard, in addition to your multiple diabetic comas, you wrecked your car in front of our store a while back.  Flipped it three fucking times.  Walked away without a scratch.  Seriously, do the world a favor and fucking die already.


I have no idea why you have decided to refuse to let me make your drink.  I haven't seen you in a good five years.  Why, all of a sudden, you don't want me to prepare your beverage.  I'm not sure why, and none of my coworkers are, either.  What the fuck.


Look.  Here's the deal.  We've got a fucking line, and you're holding that shit up.  I don't care if you don't like me.  I don't like you, and I still have to deal with you.  Bitch, I'm making your drink, and you're going to fucking drink it.  Take it and leave.  Be glad I haven't spiked it with holy water.  We're all convinced that you're Satan.


There's more of your bullshit I take issue with.  The other day, I was kindly enough to hold the door for you...and you yelled at me.  Your reasoning - you wanted to open it yourself because you're left handed.  Um...what?  On what plane of existence does that make any fucking sense?


And then today, you yelled at me for being in my shop all the time.  Um...guess what?  I fucking work here.  If you don't want to deal with me, fucking go somewhere else.  Or just die.  That would be preferable, actually.  Yeah.  Do that.


Signed,
Your disgruntled barista.


P.S. - Go fuck yourself.  Seriously, go fuck yourself.