"Failed social climber. Zine geek. Cretin." These bitter comments, directed at me, arrived via email and appeared in the Mercury letters column two weeks ago. To be truthful, the hurtful words put me in a foul mood. But three days ago, I received an anonymous letter, suggesting the message was sent from my own workplace! Evidently, one of my coworkers now seeks to take their whining to a public level. But which one? Judging from the sullen gazes aimed in my direction, there is certainly no shortage of suspects. But cold logic has narrowed the candidates to a final, wretched four:

Brodie Hylton? You must feel remarkably secure after your recent promotion to Classifieds Manager, free to lash out from the safety of your new desk. It must have been intoxicating, sending that angry little message. You must have felt like quite the big man! Well, savor that feeling while it lasts, my little friend. Odds are it will never come again.

Steve Humphrey? The envy in your eyes has hardly gone unnoticed! I know you have always coveted the spacious attic. How it must burn, watching me walk right past your door every morning on my way to the Falcon's Hive! But you walk a very dangerous road, Mr. Humphrey. Tread with care. I would not wish to see you come to harm.

Julianne Shepherd? It's no secret your taste in music tends towards the pale, bespectacled underachiever in highwater pants. Does my insistence on competence offend you? Only recently, I noticed you took a great deal of offense when I casually observed that "Not everyone can be a bright, shining star." Perhaps you think I violated some sort of cherished egalitarian notion of yours. No matter. The sparklingly untalented and charmingly inept are, at the end of the day, untalented and inept. Embrace them if you must. God knows someone has to.

Rob Crocker? You must think I possess quite the exciting life when compared to the flavorless hell of your own domestic existence! You put on a giddy show when your baby arrives at the office, laughing and whirling the little thing over your head, pretending as if it's not sapping your life force. Look at it, swelling further every day like a soft, insatiable tick. Your life is not my fault, Mr. Crocker. You have shat your own bed, sir, and now you must lay in it.

There! I have confronted each of you. I trust I will be troubled no more with this sad little matter. Good day!