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F*ck You, School Fundraising Packet!

Photograph by Twenty20

Hey, School Fundraising Packet,

Yes, that’s me, giving you the middle finger. What are you going to do about it, asshole?

Don’t you remember what happened the last time I caught you lurking in my kid's backpack? I laid myself on the floor and let out a cry so anguished that my daughter thought we had run out of coffee and ran to the neighbor’s for help. But it was far, far worse than that.

Just the sight of you in my house threw me into a fit of anxiety, like the feeling I get when leggings go on sale at Target but they don't have my size. I felt the pressure rising in my chest, the pressure to call my friends and family and start begging them to buy jumbo rolls of wrapping paper and ridiculously huge bags of assorted bows. I wept.

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After I picked myself up, I grabbed you by the spine and tore you to shreds. Then I flushed you down the toilet, and it clogged up my sewer line. The plumber had to come out at midnight but he gave me a discount because he hated you, too. You still owe me $325 for that, you dick.

I still have a giant spool of curly ribbon in my closet from a fundraiser in 1986. That's just not right.

What is your deal, School Fundraising Packet? Where do you get off trying to sell me 500 yards of metallic Santa gift wrap? That shit would be enough to wrap presents for all my friends for 25 years. That is, if I have any friends left in 25 years.

Remember my friends? I have less of them now thanks to you. They started to avoid me after I brought you to one too many get-togethers. It didn’t matter that I bought a couple of rounds of drinks before I “introduced you” and tried to sell them off-brand assorted nuts and oddly scented candles. They knew what was going on, and they ditched me like a glass of cheap, bitter merlot.

Speaking of wine, which I do often, why couldn’t you offer something useful like booze? How about some bar snacks? It would be much easier to sell my friends a few cute, festive bottles of vodka and some Slim Jims instead of a fucking bottle opener shaped like a reindeer. Think about it.

And what about all your empty promises? Who do you think you are, bribing my kid with your fancy gifts if she sells the most candy? We both know that was never going to happen. I was left to pick up the pieces after explaining to my sweet girl that selling $5,000 worth of chocolate bars was just not good enough to get that coveted $49 iPod. (And it was just the Shuffle, you couldn’t even spring for the Nano. That is some next-level bullshit right there.)

I'll give you one thing—you're one tenacious bastard. I've been dealing with you for years, first as a student and now as a parent. I still have a giant spool of curly ribbon in my closet from a fundraiser in 1986. That's just not right.

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I never want to see you again. Believe me when I say that your vats of cookie dough, your weird popcorn and your sad jewelry are not wanted by my friends, family, husband’s co-workers, neighbors or that poor lady in front of me in line at Starbucks who I pressured into buying that subscription to Hot Rod magazine.

Seriously, please stop. I’m just going to write a check.

Sincerely,

Marsha

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