Open Letter to a High-Level Executive (Or Ode to Twat Face).

Dear_______:

When I confided in my boss about a year ago that I didn't care for you, I was immediately reprimanded and questioned: "What do you mean you don't like ______?! Everyone likes _______! She's so great and sweet!" Um, no.

I do not think you're sweet. I do not think you're great. I do not think you're even mildly decent. I'm not one to kiss ass...never have been, and sometimes I wonder if I were a kiss-ass, if my life would've turned out differently. I'm not a suck-up, I'm not a brown-noser...I've tried for my own satisfaction just to see if I can pull it off, but I just can't. The end result of my ass-kissing is similar to the end result of me flirting with a boy: it gets awkward, facial expressions of confusion are exchanged, and someone usually ends up in tears...the boy, of course, after being assaulted by my lack of flirting skills.

From the beginning, dear _____, I could see through your "sweetness," and what my coworkers don't see is that you're not sweet at all, but rather a passive-aggressive twat face. That's right, I called you a twat face. I'm not sure what a twat face is, but I imagine if you looked it up, your photo would be there with that annoying fake grin of yours and that hairstyle that you're foolish enough to think you're young enough to rock...oh, but you're not.

You have three assistants, but whenever you're in the office you always end up roping me into doing you a "small favor, please." Of course, you have no clue what a small favor is, because anything that takes longer than ten minutes to complete is not a small favor: faxing 215 pages to China is a not a small favor, wandering around the city in search of a box big enough to ship the clothes you bought on your lunch break home because you're too lazy to carry them is also not a small favor. In fact, they're not favors at all, but twitty demands from a twat face.

I saw The September Issue this past weekend and realized one thing: every female boss secretly wants to be Anna Wintour. Hell, if I could have a handful of minions racing around at my beck and call, I'd be a happy lil' twat face, too. However, you are not Anna Wintour....Anna would laugh at your sad sense of style, and your vain attempts at handing out inferiority complexes.

I must admit that I take solace in knowing that a day not long from now you're going to ask me to do you a "small favor," and I'm going to tell you where you can insert that small favor request. I will not bat an eye in the delivery of my response, I will not tremble when the words fall from my mouth. Instead, I will stand self-assured and direct, speak my words, then swagger off like the bitch I am...

A Twat Face in Training,

Mandy.