Sex is a game for two. Sometimes three or more.

The letter request:

I’m looking for work and saw my dream job advertised but I noted applications had closed a few days earlier. I phoned the company and asked if they would accept a late application, explained my qualifications and gave a bit of history. They said they would like me to apply so I pulled an all-nighter and submitted the next day. Two hours later I received an email advising I had not been successful.


The letter:

Dear HR Manager,

Sex is a game for two. Sometimes three or more, sometimes one, but often two. When someone fakes an orgasm, it is generally for the benefit of the other person involved. There is no great enjoyment to be had from faking extreme pleasure; it’s just something one might occasionally do to make someone else feel better about their performance. Altruism, you might call it, for want of a better word.

Last week I applied for a job with your company. We spoke on the phone prior to my applying and you seemed enthused by my experience and credentials. You said, ‘Yes! Please Apply! Just make sure your application is in by 5pm tomorrow.’ I spent many hours writing, gave considered thought to each of your selection criteria, sought consult from friends, checked in with potential referees and finessed my resume. I spent a few hours daydreaming the logistics which in this case involved imagining myself resigning from my current role, imagining myself moving across the country to take up the position, imagining the impact on my relationship – you get the drift. I was quite excited.

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Willy Wonka was an arsehole

The letter request:

I like my chocolate and I like having a chocolatier in my hood. Despite it’s awfully hip vibe, I’ve enjoyed meeting friends there for treats. I’ve enjoyed my interactions with the perky staff, love looking through the little window at chocolate preparations. But then one busy Saturday, as I was paying for my bill something very disturbing happened. A woman, clearly new to the job, offered to split my bill. When she enquired as to the process for doing this she was admonished in a humiliating, over-the top-way. I was humiliated, for the Monsieur, and in pain for the cashier. I understand stress, I understand frustration with people not doing what you expect, but if the incident made me too sick to return with my custom, how must she have felt? And now I’m sad for everyone. Her, him and my chocolate-deprived self.


The letter:

Dear Monsieur Chocolat,

Willy Wonka was an arsehole. A creative genius, yes, but an arsehole nonetheless. He took a group of kids on a tour of his chocolate factory and then treated them as collateral damage when they fell into vats or exploded.

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