You love your kid, and I get that. It's a beautiful thing. Really. I understand your desire to watch your baby girl grow into a winner, to see her come out on top, though of course you'll adore her even if she doesn't.
But please, I'm begging you, get off my case with those goddamned Girl Scout cookies.
You offered, I declined. "I know they're delicious, but I don't keep cookies in my house." That should have been the end of it; that should have been enough to pull me out of the drop-by rotation and off the distribution list.
But today it continued: "Subject: Help Lucy stay the top cookie seller in Brownie Troop 1685!"
It was kind of you attach the order form for my convenience. But I take my fats unhydrogenated, and I'm still not interested in buying any cookies.
Surprising me in my office will not change my mind.
"The lemon ones are low in fat!" They're still junkfood.
"Randi bought three boxes!" Randi could eat five.
"Buy them for a gift, then!" Nobody I know eats this dreck.
"Just a couple boxes of Do-si-dos! I know you love your peanut butter..."
Don't pretend you haven't seen me trudging out of the office in my running shoes every night for months. You know how hard I worked to lose those 12 pounds, how determined I am to lose eight more. What you're doing here? It's like pushing blow on an addict. There's a special place in Hell for people who prey on the weak and vulnerable. Especially those who do it on behalf of their kids. Does it make you feel good to know you'll be spending the afterlife with ambulance chasers and slumlords? No? Well, it tickles me pink.