As much as I love your attempts to be as productive as you are passive-aggressive, I’m going to have to ask you to stop. Stop writing 6-15 words on an obnoxiously luminescent piece of scrap with inferior glue on it and posting them everywhere. Stop substituting interpersonal skills for Mickey Mouse prints and flowery initials. Stop assuming that by leaving little leaflets of litter everywhere that it’ll compensate for your incompetent memory. Stop. With. The. Goddamn. Sticky Notes!! Let’s list some reasons why, shall we? In a small, easily digestible format, so you can drill the message on the inside of your skull and not adhere it to the nearest surface.
1. You’re a bad person.
I don’t mean that you dissect living kittens in front of small children for your repulsive pleasure. What I mean is that you’re person-ing wrong: you’re losing your humanity. If you are unable to complete basic tasks without constant reminders, then you’re officially a step below functional. And far from adult. I would relate you to smoked-out goldfish or Spongebob on painkillers. Get your human shit together. Though I would assume you’d forget to go to the bathroom if you didn’t post a note to your zipper.
2. You’re murdering nature in recompense for your murdered braincells.
We’re all very aware that manufacturing paper requires trees. And trees are important. Because, I don’t know, oxygen and maple syrup and shit. The point is, you’re a killer—you’re a natural-born killer, in that you kill things born from nature, naturally (see what I did there?). You already promote the enslavement of small Chinese children for the purpose of your fancy smartphones, and yet you can’t let go of your juvenile days of rainforest clearing? Whenever you think, “Holy badger balls, I’ve got to remember that or Delilah will have my fallopian tubes for fourth meal!” and you reach for a sticky note, Frodo Baggins should slice your Achilles tendon.
Grab your phone, make a reminder. You can even set the place for your reminder, now. So when you walk into the office you can remember to glue used toilet paper on the underside of your boss’s chair so he smells ass all day and can’t figure out why (I take no responsibility for your actions…). For the record, in terms of environmental footprint, driving a Prius is cancelled-out by sticky-noting. Fact check me. I used smug emissions per conversation as my unit of measurement.
3. I’m still really angry at you even if you take the time to draw crooked smiley faces and lopsided hearts on your messages.
Sticky notes exist on a plane of annoyance outside of all other methods of communication. It’s not like a text from your mom asking where you put her heels because she knows you’ve been wearing them again and she needs them for work so could you please put them back before tomorrow morning. No, those can be easily ignored, and always are. You are not obligated to read it. With a sticky note, there’s no escape. Let me paint the scene: I walk into my office at 7:59 a.m. to find tiny squares of hatred plastered across my desk, each written in a contrasting shade of annoying fluorescence. Before I even have the chance to sit the fuck down, you’ve accosted me with orders that could have most certainly waited five minutes. Will you at least let a motherfucker get some green tea?! I give less than half of a hamster fecal pellet about whether or not you smile or wink or glitter at me. Take the thirty seconds to ask me in person, and you’ll get what you want faster than the usual fortnight I penalize people for Abuse of Sticky Squares with Harmful Obstruction of Leisurely Enactment (acronym?).
4. Nobody knows when to throw them away.
I know exactly how long to keep text messages: as long as I don’t delete them. They take up no space and cost nothing. I know how long to keep letters: until someone is looking for them who isn’t me (*cough*police*cough*). And then we come to
douche-y sticky notes. When can I throw them away? If I crumple it up immediately after reading it, then I’m bound to be asked if I got the message, which defeats the point of the obsolete note, anyway. If I don’t toss it soon, then it’s destined to multiply like e.coli with a hard-on. If I throw it away after I finish the task, then I have to admit to being as forgetful and incompetent as the note writer. So I’m left in a whirlwind of unnecessary stress that means I slap all of them on top of each other and try to make a flip book of my descent into madness.
5. They are the most offensive form of communication.
Want to keep in touch with someone you care about? Send them a message: LINE, whatsapp, Facebook, whatever. Don’t really care enough to exchange social networking information with them? Send them an email. They don’t have the internet? Write them a letter. Need to tell them something? Call them. Scream at the back of their head from across your cubicle coffins. I don’t care what you do, there are an infinite number of options that avoid sticky notes. When you write a sticky note to someone, you’re essentially saying that you don’t care about them enough to pen a letter or type or an email, you aren’t “friends” with them sufficiently to hit them up on Gchat or Facebook. You don’t want to be bothered with hearing their screechy voice over the phone. You can’t stomach their face enough to talk to them in person. And you don’t want to waste an actual piece of paper that you could sneeze into when you run out of tissues. You’re solidifying the brooding thought that if you weren’t obligated to do any police interviews or extra paperwork or attend their funeral, you’d much rather see their faces on the five o’clock news as MISSING. That’s right: sticky notes are a curt nod in the direction of death.
And there you have it—a tiny fraction of the case against an entity that is filling the universe with hatred. Do everyone a favor and burn the devil’s notes before your own chair begins to smell suspiciously like poop and the bitterest revenge.