This is where I get off

My mailman hates me.

He really does. It’s my fault, because I forget to check my mail, and the box is kind of small and after two days it gets a little crowded in there.

The box is kind of far away, and all I ever get these days is junk and bills. I mean, if every time I went to get the mail there was a check among the random detritus of low interest credit card offers, catalogues of useless crap I don’t need, and nasty grams from the student loan people, I might be a little more incentified into walking the 200 yards to the box. But checking the mail is more of a chore, like cleaning the litterbox.

And so now my mailman hates me. He even showed up at my door one day, threatening to stop delivering my mail if I let it fill up again. I don’t know about any of you, but being yelled at by your mailman is a little embarrassing. It’s like being yelled at by your trashman.

So now when I get the mail, I can tell when he’s mad because half my mail is balled up and jammed to the back of the box, and comes out looking like the trash it is. But the jokes on him; he’s just saving me the trouble of crumpling it up before I throw it away.