ANXIETY HELL

No. Getting the mail is for pussies. You haven’t lived until you’ve experienced the thrill of getting chased down by bill collectors. You haven’t experienced life until Dog the Bounty Hunter is hot on your trail and leaving disturbing messages on your cell phone that you can sell to Fox “News.” Think about it. What’s more fun: putting on clothes then trudging outside to scoop up your mail everyday, or walking past a bulging mailbox  every now and then – at your convenience, perhaps on your way to the Del Taco drive through – with the smug satisfaction that comes from sticking it to the man, the mailman. I like to see my bills and junk mail stuffed and overflowing in that garbage can on a stick they call a mailbox. I like how the debris flutters down and litters the environment with ads for erectile enhancement cures and discount teeth whitening treatments. What do these marketing people think, that I’m going to rush outside and say, “Hey, friend at Closet World, you seem to have mistaken me for someone who gives a shit about sock organization. Here, let me throw this paper away for you!” I don’t think so. What’s that? Del Taco attaches coupons to their ads? Damn it! Where are my pants?