I, Anonymous

Just Use Your Horn. That's What It's There For.

Listen, I get it. We're all trying to get home, frustrated by how those other drivers cut people off, or follow too closely, or cheat and manipulate their way into a better spot in a merge. But passive-aggressive driving is not an effective way of combating that behavior; in fact, it often slows down traffic and makes things more miserable for everyone. Yes, Tesla McFuckface maybe did get in the right lane to pass you and is now trying to merge back in before the lane ends. But by riding the bumper of the person in front of you and not letting him in, you're making that person and the person in front of you upset. And there's always a possibility that Tesla McFuckface is actually a stressed-out teenager, or a confused senior, or a bumbling tourist, or a young John Mulaney "Trying His Best." If someone does something dangerous, don't fume about it and take it out on everyone around you. Just honk. That's what your horn is for.


To submit an unsigned confession or accusation, send an e-mail to ianonymous@thestranger.com. Please remember to change the names of the innocent and guilty.


Wedgwood Trumpeter, Your Playing Is Obnoxious

The sun is out, the birds are singing, and there's a beautiful breeze—it's truly heavenly to be able to have the windows open during this still-smoke-free Seattle summer... until you, Wedgwood Trumpet Player, decide to stand outside and blow your mediocre-at-best trumpet to such jazzy standards as the Family Guy theme. You are THE WORST. I fantasize about standing outside with an air horn to meet you, note for note, with its blasts—so that you know just how annoying your uninvited brass noise is. Fuck you and your sense of entitlement in thinking our quiet neighborhood is somehow blessed to hear your cacophony. We live in a loud and busy city, and we deserve to bliss out on nature sounds whenever possible—not be forced to listen to your goddamn trumpet. Fuck you, Wedgwood Trumpet Player.


To submit an unsigned confession or accusation, send an e-mail to ianonymous@thestranger.com. Please remember to change the names of the innocent and guilty.


Bike Shares Are Great, Until They Get in the Way

As I stood on the corner of Pike and Broadway waiting for the light to change, a young man rolled up on his Lime bike, dropped the kickstand, and left it. The problem was that he put the bike right in the middle of the sidewalk. In my best “get off my lawn” tone, I asked him if there wasn’t a better place to leave it. “Why? Someone’s just going to come along and get it.” I could only shake my head in dismay, flummoxed by the confidence of his comeback. These are dark times we live in, where many of us have opted out of the assumed social contract of trying to cause no harm and regarding others and the world at large with respect. A shared bicycle program seems like a good idea, but when treated with such indifference, it leaves one wondering why people can’t just suffer the indignity of walking—minus headphones and texting. I mean, how can you see the big picture when you’re looking at such a little screen all the time?


To submit an unsigned confession or accusation, send an e-mail to ianonymous@thestranger.com. Please remember to change the names of the innocent and guilty.


A Moment of American Melting Pot Appreciation

I entertain people in an alcohol-fueled atmosphere for a living. After a long night of dealing with everyone from rad customers to aggressive and rude ones, I got into an Uber at 3 a.m. to go home. I began to make small talk, and my driver let me know he didn't speak English. Guess what? No one died. The quiet between us was relaxing after my stressful night. I got to listen to the GPS give directions in Chinese, and I couldn't help but think of how cool it was to hear this beautiful language after listening to loud, drunk English all night. Part of what makes me proud to be an American is that I share a home with so many different kinds of people. Diversity really is a magical part of this country, and I wanted to take a moment to celebrate that. Thank you, Uber driver, for getting me home safe and exposing me to a little bit of your culture.


To submit an unsigned confession or accusation, send an e-mail to ianonymous@thestranger.com. Please remember to change the names of the innocent and guilty.


Mind Your Own Damn Bizness, Nosy Colleague

I needed to take a personal call, so I slid into the stairwell. This sort of behavior is discouraged by The Company, but the matter was important and personal. The call lasted about eight or nine minutes, and toward the end, through the gap in the stairs, I noticed your shoes. You were standing there, head down, carefully listening to my phone call, taking mental notes I'm sure. My half of the conversation revealed very confidential information that you could use to make a mockery of me in the office. You could argue that I have no right to privacy in the stairwell, sure, but that's not the point. The fact that you could so shamelessly eavesdrop like that made me lose even more faith in people at time when I thought it wasn't possible to lose any more. Thanks so much for that.


To submit an unsigned confession or accusation, send an e-mail to ianonymous@thestranger.com. Please remember to change the names of the innocent and guilty.


Hey, Uber and Lyft Drivers: Stay Out of the Bike Lanes!

Hey, ride-share drivers: You stop in the middle of the street or block the bike lane so you can save your riders 50 feet of walking and earn that top service rating. You force me and other cyclists to go around you, out into traffic, upping our risk and slowing us down. It's bad enough that you drive around town racking up unnecessary miles, racing for fares, and generally enabling social laziness. You are making a living—so act like a professional and be aware of others. If I happen to knock on your window, slap your rear fender, or hit your mirror as I breeze by, it's just a reminder that you are being an asshole. The rest of us are using these streets, too—and we don't want to get killed to enable your serfdom to Silicon Valley overlords, service to lazy drunks, or sick love affair with your SUV. Yes, what you are doing is legal—and so is giving you the finger.


To submit an unsigned confession or accusation, send an e-mail to ianonymous@thestranger.com. Please remember to change the names of the innocent and guilty.


I Can't Wait to Move Away from Your Trashy Ass

Had I known that I would be living next to YOU, madam, I would not have dumbly signed a two-year lease to live in this suburban apartment complex. You get Meals on Wheels, but you don't need it; you have two fake service dogs, TWO!; and you fake multiple disabilities. I'm pretty sure that if you actually did have leukemia, epilepsy, a broken back, or that egg-sized brain tumor like you claimed, you'd be dead by now. Luckily, I put in my 30-day notice, and I am about to blitz your ass with complaints. All the shit you get away with that I've spoken to you about countless times? I will report you: Every. Single. Time. You smoke on your patio, let your dog shit in my yard, make a peep after 10 p.m., let your meth-head ex park in the spot I pay for... EVERYTHING. I can't wait to get the hell out of here.


To submit an unsigned confession or accusation, send an e-mail to ianonymous@thestranger.com. Please remember to change the names of the innocent and guilty.


Please Shove Your "Hortata" Where the Sun Don't Shine

You came in with dietary restrictions and condescension, and I patiently walked you through the menu and what you could eat. Being a waiter, a grad student, and over the age of 5, I know that cheese is dairy, but you insisted on pointing it out incessantly. After spending quite some time enjoying your meal, you asked if we had "hortata." I said we didn't have "horchata." You said, "No, horTata," explaining that it is a small latte (it isn't, it's nothing). Then you asked for a soy latte instead. I told you we have drip coffee (being a Mexican restaurant, this isn't outlandish). Rather than complaining directly or looking me in the eye, you tipped 10 percent and added a note to your bill that you'd taken $3 off the tip to pay for the drip coffee you ended up ordering. An online search finds you identify as a "liberal" —but not paying working-class people for their services is nothing more than a classic Trump move. I hope they serve soy lattes in hell.


To submit an unsigned confession or accusation, send an e-mail to ianonymous@thestranger.com. Please remember to change the names of the innocent and guilty.


Next Time, Pack Some Etiquette with That Camping Gear

We knew camping on Memorial Day weekend would be busy, so we planned ahead: We chose an out-of-the-way rustic camping area, drove up Thursday, found a nice site under the trees, pitched our tent, left a marker at the site, and headed back to Seattle. Friday after work, we arrived to find you in our site, our tent disassembled and piled next to the firepit, marker removed and hidden. You nervously repeated your story that you arrived and "the tent was taken down already" as your wife slunk away toward your staring kids, realization dawning on their faces that Daddy was a liar. What could we do but move on down the road and re-pitch our tent on a bare patch of dirt next to a busy trailhead. Other campers told us they'd seen you pull down our tent. The next time you bring the family out for a little "fresh air," pack some fucking etiquette along with your gear.


To submit an unsigned confession or accusation, send an e-mail to ianonymous@thestranger.com. Please remember to change the names of the innocent and guilty.


Your Black Plague Revival Tactics Are Not Appreciated

Hey, you two—the ones who were tossing food scraps out to the rats at Golden Gardens so you could watch them scurry around in the headlights of your car? Get a life. Find something to do that doesn’t involve feeding flea-bearing, plague-spreading, child-nibbling, non-native vermin. Watch a movie, offer your extra food to the homeless, make out in the front seat—basically, do anything else other than help this ongoing plague of modern civilization survive. In an age where everything you could ever be entertained by is at your fingertips, can’t you find something less flagrantly harmful to public health and welfare to keep yourselves occupied? Maybe just watch the bloody sunset for a change.


To submit an unsigned confession or accusation, send an e-mail to ianonymous@thestranger.com. Please remember to change the names of the innocent and guilty.


You, Too, Can Be a Tech Bro

To the maker of the "Go Home Tech Bro" stickers: Pray tell, what makes it okay to single out a group and tell them they're unwelcome? These aren't fascists or abusers, these are people who were either lucky enough to be born with a passion for tech things or willing to buckle down and learn the tech things. Don't be mad that our city's landscape is changing. Don't be mad you don't own a house in Seattle. We did this to ourselves. We had the same chances they did to get educated on something extremely boring. I missed the chance to buy a house when they were affordable because I was more into park lounging and working an average job. Not much has changed, and I imagine you're in the same boat. So don't be a dick—stop posting those mean stickers. Coding classes and barbers that do fades are everywhere, so you, too, can be a tech bro.


To submit an unsigned confession or accusation, send an e-mail to ianonymous@thestranger.com. Please remember to change the names of the innocent and guilty.


Yeah, I'm That Guy

I watch you from my window enough to know who you are and where you live. The first time I saw your dog shit in my yard, I opened the door and asked you if you had forgotten something. "Oops, I didn't see her do that," you replied. That was the only time you picked it up. Since then, I've been putting your dog's deposits into an old pickle bucket I keep out back—and when it's full, it's getting dumped onto your lawn with a complimentary roll of poop bags. I have also posted this on our neighborhood Nextdoor site, complete with screenshots of you, asshole. Hopefully one or the other will spur you into doing your doggy due diligence.


To submit an unsigned confession or accusation, send an e-mail to ianonymous@thestranger.com. Please remember to change the names of the innocent and guilty.


Don't Judge Me by My Co-op Sandwich

"If you shopped THERE, you could at LEAST donate some money to the homeless!" you snapped at me as I walked out of the co-op. Wait, do you know me? Yes, I indulged in an overpriced sandwich and am wearing nice shoes; I also live paycheck to paycheck and have $85,000 in student-loan debt. Should I have eaten at the gas-station deli instead? Is that where you think workers should eat? Of course you, and your white liberal counterparts, think charity will solve the global crisis of neoliberal capitalism that is grinding up the 99 percent in its machinery, especially the black and brown working-class and working poor. Maybe you and your little liberal friends should think about systems rather than attacking individuals based on where they shop, what they eat, and what they wear. Burn your stupid pussy hat while you’re at it.


To submit an unsigned confession or accusation, send an e-mail to ianonymous@thestranger.com. Please remember to change the names of the innocent and guilty.


Unplug and Pay Attention

This morning, the bus was packed, people were standing from the front to the very back. The seats for the elderly and disabled were occupied by (1) a young hetero couple who looked like they were coming down from heroin, sleeping against each other, (2) a twentysomething female wearing earbuds, (3) a dude manspreading, and (4) an old guy, the only one rightfully seated there. An older woman boarded the bus and, although she appeared able-bodied, I noticed she was trembling. Not one person in the front seats even glanced up—they all had their faces in their phones. So I offered my seat, and the shaky woman gratefully accepted. Is this a millennial thing, a Trump-affected-world thing, a Seattle thing, a technology addiction thing? I don't know, but people need to be more aware of others: UNPLUG, WAKE THE FUCK UP, and PAY ATTENTION.


To submit an unsigned confession or accusation, send an e-mail to ianonymous@thestranger.com. Please remember to change the names of the innocent and guilty.


I Hear You Pee

Dear upstairs neighbor: We all know that apartment walls are paper thin, but did you know that the floor is equally so? What I'm trying to say is that I can hear you pee... and leave the bathroom without washing your hands. Every. Time. I'm just saying that it's gross. I'm hoping that you're slathering on the hand sanitizer before leaving your apartment—but I'll be opening our building door with a covered hand just in case.


To submit an unsigned confession or accusation, send an e-mail to ianonymous@thestranger.com. Please remember to change the names of the innocent and guilty.