Dear Cup Thief

(A note for the reader: this letter serves only as my non-confrontational need to vent, and will probably expose my numerous neuroses and occasional small-mindedness. Therefore, if you like me at all, it is advised to stop reading now. Thank you. Otherwise...)

Dear Cup Thief

In our office on the eight floor of the MetLife building there is a kitchen. It's a small one, but it serves its purpose. In this kitchen are two shelves, upon which you will find a selection of cups.

Now listen carefully, this is where it gets complicated.

The lower shelf is stocked with plain white porcelain cups. These are provided by the company for office use. This means anyone in the office can use them. Want a cup of tea? Here, use a white mug – nobody will mind. (I'm not sure how much more fully I can explain this).

The ones on the upper shelf are slightly different. Observe the array of around twenty patterned mugs of different shapes and sizes. Notice the homely-ness of each. Little pictures of shoes and handbags. The NYC skyline. 'I heart cats'. 'World's biggest idiot'. Clearly these are cups brought from home by employees who are quite attached to their creature comforts and prefer to drink only from something designated for their own personal use. This is not out of the ordinary – it happens in offices around the world. It is in fact a fairly common occurrence...

...which is why I fail to understand the level of stupidity that prompts you to repeatedly help yourself to my cup. How dense can you be not to know that this mug belongs to someone. Were the white ones just too boring-looking for you? Was it the pink vine motif of mine that made you select it from the shelf every morning this week?

Perhaps I'm being insensitive. Perhaps you have a rare strain of colour-blindness that makes it impossible for you to discern patterns as well.

Perhaps I'm not. Perhaps you are just retarded.

Oh, and when I iChat you after a week of cup misdemeanors, please – for the love of god – do not say, 'Oh sorry! Didn't realize [with a z] it was yours.'

The point, my dear, is not that it is mine, but that it is quite, quite obviously not fucking yours.

Regards,

The girl who gets pissed off by general stupidity, inconsideration and having to sip her tea from chipped office-slut mugs.