1. High level written communication skills

Dear Optus,

Dude, thanks for your offer of heaps of megabytes, but basically things are really fucked up right now and I have no time to deal with the Big Questions you keep posing re: DO I HAVE ENOUGH BROADBANDITS IN THIS AGE OF MODERNISM/internet malls. Like, do you remember how I used to lie around on those hazy summer days drinking Sangria and chatting to your sales representatives like there was no tomorrow? THOSE DAYS ARE OVER, BABY. I'm a professional now, and it fucking hurts.

Not that I can't be your friend again ever but seriously your lousy call centre marketing drop-outs are totally getting on my nerves.

xoxo nora



Dear Nancy,

I know you're checking me our right now thinking 'hm that bitch looks vaguely familiar. Also, like, AWESOME HAIR.' And I can understand if you don't immediately recognise me given that you're a complete fucking fucktarded motherfucker whose syphillitic cuntbrain is pretty much full to the fucking rafters with baby spinach and beetroot salad and various species of exotic poos we've never met. Still, you might remember me as the woman who now inhabits the sweet little hovel you once called home, 'once' meaning like 10,0000 mega-aeons ago when the earth was still flat and you had a big crush on that charismatic amoeba with a minor substance abuse problem who ended up fucking your sister, just because she had bigger tits than you and could pay for her own drinks. Man, I guess that must have hurt.

Anyway Nancy, now we've gotten the introductions out of the way, I would totally love to stay and chat about the weather/the genuine awesomeness of my hair etc, but as it turns out I am too fucking busy SETTING FIRE TO THE 3 MILLION TONNES OF MAIL ADDRESSED TO YOU THAT STILL ARRIVES AT MY HOUSE EVERY SINGLE MOTHERFUCKING DAY, CLOGGING UP MY MAIL BOX WITH ANNUAL REPORTS FROM ONE OF YOUR 89 SUPERANNUATION FUNDS AND MENACING NOTICES FROM THE MAGISTRATES COURT AND LOVE LETTERS FROM BEARDY MEN AT VICROADS AND DAILY FUCKING UPDATES FROM NATUROPATHS R US AND SO ON WHEN IT COULD BE FULL OF PRESENTS. AWESOME PRESENTS. PRESENTS FOR ME, BITCH, FOR ME! sharpening my knives.

No hard feelings.

xoxo nora







Dear Electricity Meter Man,

God, you look so fucking hot in that orange jacket. And I really love what you've done with your hair – no really, that's like a
serious compliment coming from me. I don't fucking joke about hair.

What is not so much of a compliment is my appraisal of your TIMING SKILLZ. I don't mean to be touchy and shit but must you always come to read the meter when I am sitting around in yesterday's knickers, idly masturbating over some story about childhood wheat allergies (or similar) in the Herald Sun? It's like you're just parked around the corner for months on end, waiting like a SPIDER for the moment when some fat little kid dies of peanut head explosion and I find it so INEXPLICABLY AROUSING that I just can't quite resist coming over a bit Chrissie fucking Amphlett over my morning bowl of Grits. AND THEN, ONLY THEN, DO YOU POUNCE, throwing me right off my game with your tight safety jacket and your SEXY ELECTRICAL HAIR.

We could have been so happy together, Electricity Meter Man. Your Timing Skillz suck shit.

xoxo nora