That's right, Cracky the Mailman, I'm talking to you. You, the drunken jackass who decides arbitrarily that Wednesday means no mail for my entire building—and for all I know, the whole block. Last week it was Saturday that you decided to skip off to the bar instead. Who knows what next week has in store. Maybe you'll go for Monday. Nobody likes Monday. Much better you sit somewhere warm and cozy while the nice man behind the counter pours you a delicious alcoholic beverage. Or ten.
I hope you enjoy my magazines, because I certainly don't get to until they're out of date and obviously thumbed through. Was that jelly donut delicious? Sure, it made for a sticky read, but I hope you enjoyed it.
Oh, and did I mention that I'm a FREELANCER, which means most of my income gets to me via the U.S. Postal Service? I love it that I haven't gotten one check in three weeks. When I'm expecting FOUR of them. But that's okay, I'll just dip into my savings. . . oh wait. . . I don't HAVE ANY FUCKING SAVINGS, you pathetic piece of shit! Yes, your job sucks, but you have a pension, full benefits and get to wear a snappy outfit, so don't come bitching to me. I get to siphon money off my boyfriend or sell my books, while you get paid to get drunk and smoke crack. And I can't even complain about your sorry ass because then I'll never EVER get another piece of mail. So this anonymous fuck you is the best I can do. For now, anyway. . . .
I hate you.
Oh, and South Dakota, I hate you even more than I hate my mailman.