Life's our oyster and we're gonna suck that bitch down with a champagne chaser.

  • Behavioral Therapist
  • MA Developmental Psychology, Columbia
  • BS Psychobiology/ French, UCLA

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Monday, May 16, 2011  
A Love Letter to Eugene the Post Office Guy

Dear Eugene the Post Office Guy,
I see you on a pretty regular basis, maybe once every 2-3 weeks, over the past 10 or so years. I'm usually mailing an item I sold on eBay, a letter to the Superior Court of California disputing a traffic violation or some headshots for my girlfriend.

So why is it that you insist on asking me before I mail a letter or package if it contains, "liquids, perishables, hazardous materials, or explosives," regardless of the size or weight of the package. My answer is always, and will always, be "no."

Do you think that I have been coming to your post office for 10 years, mailing DVDs, Xbox games and angry letters, in order to slowly but surely gain your trust, so that one day when you, Eugene, have finally become my dear friend, close enough that you do not ask me if my package contains liquids, perishables, hazardous materials or explosives, that I will exploit that relationship I have been working on for all these years, in order to mail that canister of liquid mercury through parcel post, since after all these years of knowing you I couldn't manage to mail that item, because I just couldn't bring myself to lie to you?

As much as it pains me to say, I was not trying to get you to warm up to me, Eugene.

And do you know what else, Eugene? I wouldn't tell you if I was mailing those items even if I was. Do you know why? Because I never hear you ask that question to anyone else but me. I wait in line every couple of weeks, listening to your interactions with the other customers and not once do you ask them if they are potential terrorists. So if my middle-eastern ass wants to mail something perishable or hazardous, I ain't telling you.

That sponge cake I want to mail to Alpharetta, Georgia? You'll never know about it.

So wipe that self-satisfied smirk that appears on your face every time you ask me that question, because no matter how much you fantasize about it, you are not working at a covert anti-terrorist branch of the government. You work at the post office.


Lots of love,

7:24 PM


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