Dear woman buying snakeskin leggings: Listen, I don’t know why these things even exist, but let’s be real — they’re hideous.  I can’t believe you’re going to wear these.  And no, I don’t buy your story that they’re for your 16 year old daughter.  She’s probably going to die of mortification when you strut into the living room when you get home, where she’s hanging out with her boyfriend, and show them off.  Don’t do it.

Dear yuppie woman with crimped hair: When you walked by the sweaters I was folding, your husband said, “Oh, those are cashmere!” I said, “Actually, they’re merino wool.”  But you listened to him, not me, and when your perfectly manicured nails brushed the sweaters, you recoiled in horror and stared at me. “That’s not cashmere,” you gasped, “that’s merino wool!“  No shit, Sherlock.  Although I’m impressed with you knowing the fabric so quickly, I told you it wasn’t cashmere.

Dear teenage girl who tried on the size 2 leggings: First off, leaving shit on the floor of the dressing room is LAME.  Leaving it inside out is even lamer.  Also, judging by the fact that the seam of these leggings were split up the left thigh, you are not a size 2.  However, most people aren’t, so don’t beat yourself up or develop an eating disorder or some shit over it.  Just try on your actual size next time, instead of making me trash merchandise.  Oh, and put it back on the fucking hanger please.  Thanks.

Dear people looking at the ugly DKNY sweater: Stop fucking unfolding it, realizing how ugly it is, and throwing it back atop the other sweaters.  Not a single one has sold in two weeks, and I doubt you’re going to be the one to break this streak.  I fold this goddamned sweater 4+ times an hour and I am so, so sick of it.

Dear mom buying the super cute pair of clearance jeans in size 18mo: Please return them.  I want them for Maia and the only other size is 2T, and to be honest I don’t even know what that means yet, and I feel like when I said to you, “Oh gosh, those are soooo cute!” you should have said “Much like your daughter.  Here, have them!”

Dear people going into the changing room at 8:30pm with arms full of clothing: Baby Jesus hates you, and so do I.