Like the keto diet, La Croix, and shoplifting zucchini squash from your local Whole Foods, cryotherapy is the latest trend sweeping the nation. Think of your average spa day—cucumber facial, a foot massage from a cross-eyed dude named Todd—then add getting nearly frozen to death by a giant cold robot. Voila! You’re still alive and your pores are microscopic.

But in my case, it also turned me into one stone cold bitch.

If you thought I was “slightly abrasive at times,” just wait till I’ve frozen my ass off in a futuristic spaceship-cooler-thingy, Stephanie.

I used to be so scared to offend anyone. I was constantly walking on eggshells, even around my closest friends and family. But guess what, asshats! I spent three minutes in a -200 degree Fahrenheit cylindrical pod, and I’m not gonna take your crap anymore.

Aloha, Debra from the PTA. Stop bitching about me to the other parents when I bring Costco bulk crackers to the meeting instead of the gross gluten-free nonsense you put on the list. I’m not willing to pay $6.50 for literal cardboard. Your idea to replace “Meatball Monday” with “Mackerel Monday” in the cafeteria totally blows. Now that my fingers and toes have been frostbitten by the pod that brought Superman to Earth, I’m ready to tell you that your kids got your nose. And that’s not a compliment.

Bonjour, Karen who sits next to me at work. I know how much you judge me for eating peanut butter out of the jar with a fork during lunch. And don’t think I failed to notice when you didn’t invite me to Thursday morning spin class. The days of me pretending I don’t notice you smirk when I check my teeth for almond shards in my phone’s camera are long gone, girly. I’m so cold I’m basically a human penguin now, and I also filled your $500 scalloped Neiman Marcus flats with my leftover peanut butter. Have fun at Tuesday hot goat yoga!

Howdy, Kevin who bags groceries at the local Safeway. Look dude, I don’t give two flying fucks that you got a degree in art history from Yale or whatever. We get it, you’re smart. Try channeling an ounce of that fat IQ into bagging groceries because you totally suck at it. Now that I’m more cryogenically frozen than the head of Walt Disney, I’m not intimidated by your honestly impressive knowledge of modern impressionism. The next time I go grocery shopping, I’m going to wait until three minutes before the store closes to bring my cart filled with loose leftover fish heads that make surprisingly good broth to the register. Have fun triple bagging those babies!

Hello, Tiffany. You idiot—Oh, wait. Shoot. You’re actually super nice, I’m so sorry. That pottery class we took together was really fun. Let’s get lunch next week?

Yo, Ann. Yes, you. No, not Ann T., Ann B. In this case, the “B” stands for butt-wipe. I don’t appreciate you casually bringing my garbage can up to my house when I forget about it for three days. However long I forget about my trash can is none of your damn business. I didn’t tell Tracey that you stole her Amazon package off her porch after she said your new bangs made you look like Sia’s mom, so take your sweaty paws of my trash can. Since my lips were permanently turned bright purple by a human-size freezer, I spent the last two weeks dumping my dog’s hot diarrhea into the mailbox you never check. Have fun opening your birthday cards!

If you were not personally addressed this time around, you’ve made it to round two! That’s right, I’m going back to Serenity Spa to have another four layers of skin blasted off a by the North Pole’s evil cousin. I’m looking directly at you, Jennifer, Gina, Tom, Cathy, Liz, Amanda, and Melissa.

Can one of you jerkfaces turn up the heat? I can’t feel my ears.