There is something very unfair about redheads, Journal. The way their sneaky little eyes wander about a vastly peopled room and skewer you with a glance that cannot be rightly labeled as anything other than sinister––or, still, how they always seem to be diminutive in stature, prancing around like Santa's little carrot-topped elves, sabotaging your evening Cheerio drills with their dualistic, naughty vs. nice judgment in which you do not fall under the category of 'nice.' I cannot quite put a name to it, Journal, except to reprise: there is something very, very unfair about redheads. Gingers. I need to refresh myself on all the insulting synonyms for redheads, though there probably will not be enough to sate my ire. You are an intelligent object, Journal, as you belong to me, so you have probably deduced at this point that I am, of course, referring to none other than Mary-Jane––no, that's not it. Lisa? Susie? Oh, whatever her name is––Pillsbury. There is something unfair about Pillsbury, Journal.

Sue stopped, letting her pen roll over the folds of her journal. She had taken a pause to muse, or reflect, if you will, on what exactly she was about to record in her diary: how much did she want to divulge? Perhaps this was enough for now. Firmly, she shut the thing and slipped her pen back into her desk drawer, pushing back in her freshly oiled leaning chair and placing her feet on top of her desk. She crossed her arms over her chest and pursed her lips, allowing her thoughts to run free for a moment before she continued going about her business. She always had extra time during her lunch break, since all she ever ate or drank was her special energy shakes, and thus it was a customary practice for Sue to use the extra time for journaling, which she'd just done now. But then there were those few, awkward, dead minutes between the conclusion of her journaling and the conclusion of her lunch break with which she generally did not know what to do. What perplexed her was that, for the past few weeks, she had known what to do with them. It was around this time that she usually thought about the Annoying Ginger. Ah, yes, laugh all you want... but yes, one Emma Pillsbury was on the mind of one Sue Sylvester, for reasons unbeknownst to the latter. Believe me, if she could have ended those sorts of thoughts, she would have eons ago. But she found herself incapable of extracting the little carrot-top from her mind. Was it the way her garishly large brown eyes sparkled in the cheap fluorescent lighting of the cafeteria? Or, perhaps was it the strange, elf-like fashion ensembles she sported from day to day? Sue could not place it in her mind. All she knew was that the woman was on her mind. And she wanted her gone.

'Excuse me, Coach Sylvester?'

'Oh, how you unarm me, cruel fate...' Sue murmured dramatically to herself before flicking her eyes up to none other than the Pillsbury dough girl herself, who had just appeared timidly in her doorway. 'What is it, Emily?'

'Um, it's Emma, actually, and... well, I just wanted to let you know that I've been receiving several of the Cheerios this week, and I'm worried about...' Emma paused, lowering her eyes and knotting her hands together nervously. Coach Sylvester always had this odd way of making her extremely nervous. Though, she supposed it couldn't have been that odd, since the halls practically parted like the Red Sea for Moses every time Sue walked them. Though, in a more sinister, and less blasphemous way, to be sure. Anyway. She shook her head and continued, 'Well, they all just seem to be extremely disturbed, and––'

'Sit down,' Sue said, flatly, gesturing to the chair across from her with a barely perceptible flick of her index finger. 'Let me tell you something, Emily,' she began, teeth grated, and yet voice remarkably calm. 'The vitality of these girls,' Sue began after Emma had smoothed over her ugly, retro pinafore and sat down, 'depends on whether or not we make it to the national cheerleading competition. It is two weeks before we find out. Now, you've got a brain somewhere in there, underneath that ridiculously perky mass of orange hair, so I trust you can use the powers of deduction with which man was so luckily gifted to conclude that yes, they are under extreme stress, and no, I will not do anything to change that. The success of our team hinges on their drive to win, and if they were always cooed and coddled into a false sense of confidence, well, there would certainly be a dearth of gold trophies in my office, wouldn't there?'

'Yes, I suppose so,' Emma muttered after a pause, her eyes still lowered, 'But, Sue, isn't there a better way to motivate them? There's got to b––'

'Listen, Emily––'

'Um, it's Emma, Sue, n––'

'To be honest with you, I don't care what your name is. All I care about is that trophy, and that spot on the evening news. Now, if you came here to sabotage that (I view attempting to change my methods of motivation as sabotage) then I suggest you take your awkward, retro, Scooby-Do throwback self, and deposit it outside of my office. Are we clear?'

She sighed. 'Yes. I just––I just wish there was a better way.'

'And I wish there were more Mexicans to clean my office. But we can't have everything we wish for, Emily. The world is a cruel, unfeeling place, and the illegal alien laws have become more stringent with the passing days.'

Emma simply gave a look of aghast disdain toward her coworker before her perfect little mary-janes click-clacked out of the room, leaving Sue steeped in her own quietude, focused on one, simple thought with painful clarity: we can't have everything that we want.