Someone was bound to get it. And damnit, it might as well be the mailman.

With all the shit going on at work these days (yea, I cussed, what of it?) and other crap like my grandmother passing, wedding planning, job uncertainty, yadda. Now my dog up and dies. It was not a suprise that this is how it came out.

See, a little background is helpful here. Last Thursday (as in almost a week ago) Mr. Mailman delivers big packages, stuffed in our quaint mail slot. Brian comes home, excited to see from afar that there’s stuff hanging outside, and not in the mail chute. To Brian, this means a new Rolling Stone or something else tantalizing to sink my ever-bored teeth into. WRONG. No, it’s retirement information for some foreign guy that doesn’t even live at our address. Unless my roomate’s hiding something from me. And seeing as it’s a 2 bedroom place, I doubt I’m missing something.

Fine. No problem. I take the rest of the mail in, and leave the other returnable pieces outside for him to take. WRONG AGAIN. Not Friday, Saturday, Monday, Tuesday OR Wednesday. Nope. Our SAT champion mailman takes the shit out, each day, slides our new mail in, then replaces the SAME PIECES. I’m not sure. Maybe he’s blind. Or has no hands. Or perhaps its a dog delivering it, and with no opposable thumbs, cannot manage the drop off/pickup at the same concurrent time. Whatever the case, he’s braindead and his lack of attention to detail is pissing me off. So I left him a note. The first draft went something like this:

Dear Asshamper,

Perhaps you’ve noticed by now that we’ve been leaving the same articles of post in our mailbox for the past week now. I’m not sure if your new on the job, or if the new company policies/procedures have you confused. Maybe it’s just the winter doldrums. But here’s a refresher. You have two jobs, pick up outgoing mail, drop off incoming mail. That’s it. We have a universally established relationship here, and frankly, you’re messing with the order of the universe.

Every day, upon returning home from work, my blood pressure skyrockets, causing my heart to race, and veins to bulge from my neck like a superhero. Every morning (upon promptly forgetting about your negligence), I exit on my way to work, equally enraged by this gross oversight on your part.

I, singlehandedly, have you to thank for making each and every day of my life suck complete, total and unadulturated ass. And I think you made my dog die too, bitch.

TAKE MY F*CKING MAIL TO THE F*CKING POST OFFICE.

Thank goodness for deciding to edit the first draft.