I haven’t been feeling very creative lately. Creative is part of my job description. It’s a tough rut to get out of. So, I figured I would write here until I feel like my block is unblocked. It could take a while. You might be reading the beginning chapter of the next great American novel. Or, much more likely, a blog post I may never put up.
I recently bought a pick-up. It’s the nicest thing I’ve ever owned. I’ve previously been in vehicles that having a pair of vice grips on hand to get the window up was the normal. In fact, I owned a jeep without windows at all. During the winter it would snow into my back seat. I carried an extra coat whenever I drove. I was homeless for a short period of time and lived in that Jeep.
The Jeep Formerly known as Booger
It was a pretty crummy winter. Owning a new truck and having my creativity drop off makes me think maybe I’m growing soft in that department. Maybe I need to exist on the fringes of things. Having a steady income over the past two and a half years may have done more than made me a little rounder on the outside. Maybe it’s made my brain get fat as well.
I have an idea. I used to write these letters to random people or things. I called them “letters I don’t plan on sending.” This was back in the days of myspace. I was once a pretty popular blogger on there. Well popular may be exaggerating a touch.
So let’s try doing that again.
I’m writing this letter because it doesn’t seem as if anything else has gotten through to you. When you moved in, we had the agreement that you would at least keep your area clean. I don’t mind taking care of dinner everyday. I don’t even mind when you crawl in my bed every once in a while. But the trash that comes out of your area is just unacceptable. I understand that you’re a cat. I’ve come to terms with your shedding. I’ve come to accept you only wanting attention at the least convenient moments possible. But getting your litter stuck to my freshly showered feet makes me think you might be an outside cat. I’ve heard every cat is an outside cat when you don’t want it anymore.
Ok, that was a little too far. I’m sorry. It was an idle threat. I promise. Please don’t kill me tonight when I’m asleep.
A.K.A. the guy who lives at your house testing your goodwill.
The roommate. She doesn't have a name. If she did, she wouldn't come to it if I called her anyway.
I promise, I probably don’t need that last drink at 1:45 AM. Please don’t listen to anything I say. Just call me a cab.
P.S. So sorry I’m bad with math and tipping. I’m getting better I promise.
Getting ready for a long Tuesday is my guess.
Dear U.S. Postal Service,
I recently spoke briefly with a postman on a Saturday. I was under the impression Mail service had stopped on Saturdays, so when I even saw a letter carrier, I was a tad surprised. So, being the guy everyone hates at a meeting for asking questions, I asked the aforementioned (thank you thesaurus) “When are you guys stopping delivering on Saturday?” The postal carrier replied, rather tersely I would like to point out, “Never.” With that level of confidence about literally anything else, I would probably be (insert something awesome I couldn’t think of right now.). With that level of confidence, it genuinely surprises me that my mail is constantly being delivered to the wrong mail box. My mail box has my name on it. The one the postal service keeps putting it in does not. This to me is exactly the same as someone wearing and Affliction or Ed Hardy t-shirt. It’s confidence in the wrong place. Let’s start seeing mail go to the right address before we start saying “never” to anything. Saying “Never” should be reserved for questions like “Hey J.R. when do you like anchovies on your pizza?” or “Hey J.R. when will you be buying that new Justin Beiber album?”
P.S. Please don’t tell anyone what I’m getting delivered to the wrong address.
Please stop using this space to try and rectify your mail problems. If you want to talk to the federal government, just leave yourself a voicemail.
The National Security Agency
P.S. We know what you got delivered in the mail. And frankly, you should be ashamed.