Dear Sir,
You were sweeping up paper bits in front of the elevators at approximately 9:40 Monday morning at 2001 Wilshire in Santa Monica when I came blustering out into the lobby, talking loudly on my phone about how to get to my doctor’s office, which seemed to have disappeared. The completely different facade, parking, elevators and hallways should have been a clue that I was in the wrong building, which you so politely pointed out. In fact, you even knew what building I should have been in. Apparently this happens a lot.
I’m sorry I shushed you, that was rude. Please know that I’m not normally like that, it’s just that driving in Santa Monica really freaks me out, I’m afraid I may get laid off this week, and they told me not to eat after midnight so I can get my blood tested. They said I could have coffee, but only if it was black, and what on earth would be the point of that? Why don’t I just punch myself in the stomach with a molten lava hulk fist?
Anyway, I wanted to say that you were right, the receptionist at my doctor’s office was just as confused as I was, and it was really cunty of me to keep making the “I’m on the phone” sign and shushing you when you were a) just trying to help and b) the only person who actually knew what was going on. I have been on the other side of that kind of bullshit and all I can say is I understand how awful that was.
Hopefully some day I will have need of the services of the insurance broker whose building I was in, and we can meet again on better terms wherein you can discover that I am actually really delightful most of the time.
In unity,
Marina