Dear Stupid Salad Girl,
From behind, I thought you were about 15 years old, based partly on the girly-girl conversation you were having with your friends. "Did you cut your hair? Omigod!" etc.
Seriously, having you order your salad right in front of me was both entertaining and frightening at the same time.
I thought you must be a tourist, because no one is that polite when ordering a salad. "Cucumbers, please. Tomatoes, please..." And you had to stand on your toes the entire time, as if to make your voice carry over the plexiglas wall. And for the record, I hate Converse sneakers, so you were doomed from the second I glanced you up and down.
Then came the dressing. "A tiny, tiny, tiny" amount of dressing adds up to you licking the tip of the salad bottle, you moron. In New York, when you're watching your weight, you ask for it "on the side" to avoid the scorn of the entire fucking line.
I almost puked when you said to the guy behind the counter you were "excited," as he was putting the lid on your salad. Really? Excited over salad? What planet are you from? I'm shocked that you didn't throw money into the tip cup, conveniently and prominently displayed just in time for the holidays.
I wondered what kind of grief you'd give the cashier, but somehow I missed you until I was outside. There you were, waiting to cross the street and go into my office building. Please, please, please tell me that you do not work in my building and that you are just here for the day visiting your sister who could not get the day off and had to lug you in to work, rather than leave your childlike self unsupervised at the apartment.