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So I’m in the post office this morning and I didn’t get there as early as I should have as I normally would’ve and when I finally get there, there’s a queue, right, a queue right out the door and doubling in on itself. Yeah, fuck. I join (at the back of course) and I’m looking round, you know, checking out the place assessing the situation in an all too business-like manner. Seems to be moving forward steadily but my god there’s a lot of fucking people here too many fucking people. Big packages, little packages, the lot the fucking lot. There’s at least one crying snot-nosed kid for every three people, too, crybitch moaning wailing. All sorts but then I catch sight of this guy yeah, towards the front of the queue right? His whole body’s tattooed including his face, yes his face, like an intricate ink web, but from a distance it just makes him look like he’s really, really dirty covered in dirt. And the funny thing is, he’s wearing a baseball cap and these worker type boots right… but they’re pink fucking pastel PINK. Yes, I can hear you collectively echoing, “What the fuck?” but I have no fucking idea, none. Anyway, this woman, right, she’s arguing with her kid and I’m just shifting shifty gaze around, trying not to let it—god forbid—land on anyone, specially not the ancient white-haired ladies jabbering away as they’re bound to try and include me. And I don’t give a shit, man. I don’t want to know about your fucking dietary habits, I’m just here, casually casual minding my business tending my own, yeah? Turn my attention to something else quick, you get me? Oh look there, rows upon steamy rows of an item every post office needs: romance novels. With crap titles like Hearts Aflame! And I’m noticing an alarming trend, though, a lot of these are about Texas. What the fuck indeed, like A Heart Bigger Than Texas and Secret Wedding Vows in Texas? What’s so special about fucking Texas? Surely as far as romantic locations go… oh forget it, it’s not even worth the pixels it’ll render on. And the shit pictures on the paperback covers, sweetjesus, I’m going to be sick somebody please advance this queue so I can stand next to the more interesting part with the children’s colouring books for fuckssake. And now I start to notice, manically right, totally manic—underneath all this I’m feeling like… well, like I just don’t belong here. I mean, really, what AM I doing here? What the why the fuck am I here again? Oh. Yes. Of course. Post. Letters. Right. My heart starts beating faster and faster now and I’m at that uncomfortable point in the queue where you’ve turned the corner and you’re facing the people behind you, right? And it’s still all the way out the fucking door and the lady in front of me keeps shifting back on her feet and standing way too damn close to me and the people at the back of the queue, yes I feel like they’re looking at me. They’re looking at me, yes they sure as fuck are. They’re thinking ‘I wish I was at that place in the queue’ probably. But I just feel they’re judging me, my dress, my letters, my hair, my body all of me and I start to freak out a little—just a little, just ever so slightly a touch, but my palms are sweaty and it’s all I can do to appear coolcalmchill all those cold words but instead I’m hot!hot!hot! with the burning gaze of all these sweaty staring impatient strangers. What do they want, what do the want from me? Breathe, I think, just breathe it’ll be over soon and we have to do this. Yes obligatorily right we have to do this near-insignificant task that’s so beneath us, right? Yeah it’s just a fucking post office, what are you mental? You’re fucking mad and it’s just people people people like you. And then I start to cackle maniacally to myself, all in my head, right, because this is obviously all in my head down in me in my fucking little head, right?

And then, just then… an eerie automated voice beckons, “Please proceed to window number three.”

Oh, thank fuck.