The door where patrons waited for their box mail was like that of a prison — thick and made of steel. It was painted dark green, like a dumpster.
The three of us waited there, held captive until the clerk got around to us, periodically peering from the door’s top portion, which swung open inwardly, as if she would serve us a last meal.
The mail rooms at our respective apartment complexes had been broken into, and now delivery was suspended. So we each had to travel off-site to retrieve our mail. And so there we were, on line for box mail at this filthy, institutional-looking post office branch.
The clerk, wearing a blue rubber glove, examined our IDs before handing over our various letters and bills and unsolicited garbage in the form of catalogs and circulars and what-have-you. This wad of paper we each received was our ticket to freedom, allowing each of us to leave and continue on with our day as we so pleased.
— First version of this anecdote is here.
The three of us stood on line for box mail at a filthy, run-down post office branch this morning, and to our surprise, after 10 minutes or so of mutual silence, we discovered we had something in common: A security breach had occurred in the mail rooms at our respective apartment complexes, and delivery was suspended until further notice.
Upon arrival I stood there seething because my breach had taken place more than a month prior. The clerk then asked what my address was and wanted to see my ID. The guy behind me then shared that he lived at my complex, which was about 3 miles west of the post office. And the old lady behind him said she lived a few blocks from us.
We bitched for some minutes about having to travel off-site to retrieve our mail. “At my complex, all we were told was that there was a security concern in the mail room that needed to be addressed,” I stated. We theorized on what our breaches may have entailed as none of us was privy to details of whatever incidents took place.
After I exited the post office, I sat in my car and posted a snarky comment on the community wall on the online portal for residents at my complex. That was at about 9:30 a.m. It is now 4:30 p.m. and the comment has not yet been approved.
The poem was written flawlessly in my head, but I just sat there and listened as my inner voice recited it.
The recommendation of 8 hours of sleep
Doing stuff in the daytime and going to bed at night
The regimen of 3 square meals a day
Conventional interior design, such as coffee tables belonging in the living room
The binary in all its incarnations
Standard breakfast items, eg. bagels, bacon, cereal, pancakes — it’s all fat, grease and sugar
Getting married and having kids
Looking before you leap
Avoiding conversation with strangers
I fancied that the large sign mounted on high along Jones Boulevard advertised for a cosmic dentist. A streetlight had obstructed the “et” in the word cosmetic.
The doc himself was pictured alongside the enormous text, laughing, seemingly at me, as if I had purple skin and multiple heads, maybe six eyes.
I sat at the red light and imagined that the doc provided magic mushrooms or peyote to his patients in lieu of laughing gas or procaine.
Last night while watching the first Spider-Man film with Tobey Maguire for like the third time, it dawned on me that Peter Parker’s aunt and uncle were cut from the same template as Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham from the old sitcom Happy Days, both of who were American archetypes. This seems to make a degree of sociological sense being as the Spider-Man comic was created in 1962. No?
Which would make Peter Parker somewhat of a Fonzie figure — you know, infallible and all. With the exception of Peter Parker being a social klutz, in contrast to The Fonz’s finesse and charm.
That’s about the only semi-interesting thing I have to say today, methinks. It’s hard to have more than just one or two decent observations when all you do is go to work during the week and then restrict your weekend social activities to grocery shopping.
I will say that I like that when you watch a movie multiple times over the course of whatever time period, you start to gain enough original insights and ideas about it that seem almost essay-worthy.
Yes, I ordered a wallet & chain. Not that I have much to put inside. It’s more the appearance that’s appealing. I like what it projects.It’s not refined or soft like the traditional feminine aesthetic, nor is it demure. The chain denotes power. And the best part is the bulge in the back pocket — perhaps a reference to the male crotch, or a simulation of it. Perhaps even a distortion of it.
I feel extraordinarily relaxed. My heart is calm.
I resumed exercising 2 weeks ago. I sweat while running. Now my legs can rest.
I feel put, like a plant on a bookshelf — inert but alive and thriving.
I eat clean and efficient. Nothing extraneous. I’ve removed noodles, bread and rice from my diet.
I shop for lofty food — leafy greens and avocados, beans, garlic and onion, fruit, nuts and raisins, pesto for lettuce wraps.
I improvise a recipe of shredded carrot and black beans, tzatziki sauce, cucumber and red onion. Chopped romaine, feta and chickpeas.
I had a nightmare the moon smoldered and spun, then fell out of orbit. Afterward, I wondered about the consequences, but I did not immediately feel adverse effects. I knew they would come, though, since I’d been told the moon holds sway over the oceans and such, and by extension, factors in as far as human behavior — what with us consisting of up to 60 percent water. That’s according to the US Geological Survey.
Recently I had a flat tire, so I had to join AAA on the spot. They charged me an extra fee because normally you have to wait a certain period before requesting assistance. But it was cheaper than calling a tow truck. I had initially pulled over at a gas station and attempted to fill my tire with air, but I couldn’t revive it: My dashboard said the pressure remained at 0.00 percent.
Thinking about both these things, I drew a connection. I surmised the message was my life was out of balance.