I realize that by frequenting a cheesy, yet winningly convenient chain-store gym, I'm putting myself on code red alert for interactions with assholes. However, your stunt left me particularly aghast. I dutifully penciled in my name for the 7 am slot in the tanning booth--well in advance. After a dip in the pool and a couple reps, I made my way back to redeem the appointment that was rightfully mine. At 6:57 am I saw you--with your hideous charcoal gray, petrified bowl cut hairdo, and your leathery, faggoty visage that'd obviously seen one too many protein shakes. There you stood, brazenly erasing my good Christian name and replacing it with your nom de salope! Then you turned to me and assured me that it was in fact your turn to fake 'n' bake, and I was so pissed and overly emotional about it that I just sputtered. I fucking hope you spent your 12 minutes in the booth thinking about all the people who actually need to tan, instead of just daily attendance to their melanoma. If there is a higher power, I hope it compels you to frequently forget your goggles until you go completely, unattractively blind. --Anonymous