(Alternate headline: Queen LaGriefa.) From this week's I, Anonymous:
It's been about 18 months since the accident. Almost immediately after my husband's death, SO many stupid people did SUCH stupid shit that I wanted to take out an ad in the newspaper to tell you all to STFU. However, I didn't have a dime at that particular moment, and so it's had to stew a while. It was worth putting off, turns out, cause the really shitty shit didn't hit the shitty fan for a while. And now, here are the well-seasoned fuck-yous I've been sitting on. To the private clients who dumped me: Good. You're a bunch of whiny, neurotic babies. To Rabbi Fuckface: My husband was an atheist. You said kaddish for him without asking my permission and never once asked if my family was okay. WHOOPS. To my husband's coworkers: You showed up late and drunk to his memorial service, and your director gave me a T-shirt. WOW. THANKS. To the ex-wife: You sued me over MY husband's estate. You FUCKING SUED ME. I have no words. (Wait, I do: Get a job, you lazy twat.) Finally, to my husband who went and died on me: You signed all your life insurance TO YOUR TEENAGE KID, you dumbass. I'm sure you didn't mean to, just like you didn't mean to fall off that fucking cliff. I'm sure you didn't mean to leave your beloved son fatherless and leave me to pick up the pieces because you did not leave a will. For that, I have to pronounce you the dumbest genius that ever lived and died. If there's any justice in the world, you will somehow know that I'm fucking one of your best friends and that he's way better in bed. May the flying spaghetti monster have mercy on your soul, because I sure as shit ain't there yet.