FlogDailyHerald: The psyche of someone in line for a package at JWW

Mail Services BearPackage Arrival Notice! Oh! How exciting! Someone loves me. Maybe it’s a care package from my dear parents. They do care about my well being and general happiness. Maybe it’s a textbook from Amazon to fill my brain with knowledge or a sweater from Urban Outfitters that mom and pop store to keep me warm through the winter. I’m so excited to find out what it is, but I’ll wait until a weird time to pick it up so I can avoid the line. I’m so smart and clever, everyone should want to sleep with me and be my friend.

It’s 1:24. Only a crazy person would pick up a package at such a silly hour in the—HOLY SHIT! What the fuck is this? Is it noon at the Ratty right now? Did someone put a Six Flags roller coaster in JWW? Don’t you all have places to be? Oh, that’s nice, a bake sale; I wish I had a dollar. Oh well, I guess I better get in line.

(Having moved about 4 feet.) This. Is. Death. Yes, I see your cookies. They look delicious, but I did not find a dollar in the 8 minutes since you last asked. Yes, it’s a very nice cause. What’s taking so long? Ugh, it’s that blonde bitch. Oh god she’s one of those who’s SURE her package is here. You need to get the email, you platinum plated piece of—calm down. It’s fine. It’s been like 10 minutes now. You’ve got nothing to do. It’s okay.

Oh god it’s that guy whose name I forget. Why do I see you everywhere? Just smile and wave, boys. Smile and wave. Really, you’re asking me that personal question that proves what a great listener you are? Adapt, Brian. Ask him something. How’s your… winter break, shopping period, mother’s health. Idiot! Mother’s health? Where’d you pull that out of? Oh. Not great? SHUT UP ABOUT THE BAKE SALE. I’m sorry to hear that. Okay… bye then.

That was awful. I know! Pass the time by coming up with things you’d rather be doing: Drinking iced coffee. Watching 30 Rock. Removing my eyes with a melon baller. Giving myself paper cuts and pouring lemon juice in them. Passing out in the snow and welcoming the Angel of Death.

Who sent me this fucking package? Did they know what they were putting me through? I hope they burn. I hope the US Postal Service spontaneously erupts in flames. I’m abandoning the package. Someone call TSA, I spy an unclaimed box. What’s my box number? 7753? What’s my purpose in life? Is there a god? Does he get mail? Thank you. Take my ID and my sense of hope.

Let’s see what I sold my soul for. Peanut butter cups? Peanut butter cups. So worth it.

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