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the post office- it's this weird place- this land where as soon as you set foot on its soil your mood darkens. your blood runs cold, yet you begin to sweat. there are others all around you, all with their own packages, making a mad dash to get in line in front of me and everyone else (yet, everyone is trying to get in front of everyone). the smell of the customer in front of you permeates your clothing so you smell it for the next three hours. the pens don't work, making your blood pressure rise all the further (and yet, this too is your fault- for waiting and not packing up what you need to send- so you have to get a box at the post office and address it and everything there- making your visit so much longer). the anticipation grows, soon...or later...but experience dictates that at some point your turn will come. the hundreds of tiny post office boxes start to look like prison cells and you begin to feel trapped. you look around, and the shifty eyed patrons are checking their watches or standing there with a stupid look on their faces. finally, you get called up- and it is a trainee who is helping you. mistakes are made, and for once they aren't your fault. you find odd momentary pleasure in this realization. but then the bright yellow walls behind the postal employees start to make you feel even crazier. you start to wonder when, not if, but when some other customer will go postal. while the cashier tries to figure out how to send a postage due package with insurance (thus holding up the line behind you longer, and preoccupying the cashier next to him so she can't do her own work). what is that? did you hear a curse word come from behind you. you'd be a prime target for the rage- if you just needed a book of stamps...then you wouldn't be standing there. is that cashier that your trainee keeps interupting starting to look irritated? yes! read what it says right here (she says for the fourth time) and you begin to realize that it is typically a postal worker who goes postal...not the other way around. the threat isn't going to come from behind you at all. eyes forward, do i see any potential weapons. thank you maam, is there anything else? finally! finished! no...wait- he never charged me for this damn box. do i say anything or just leave? it has taken so damn long that fucking box should be free at this point. wait! i bet these premises are under surveylance. i can't spell worth a damn. fess up! "the box!" you shout loudly. too loudly. now you look suspicious. twitch. eyes dart from hither to yon. pay and leave pay and leave. finally free to go...free to go...walking- there is the door- and here comes a lady with a large heavy looking box. wait for her- you can't leave yet- wait- she'll get here eventually- you glance back at the madness within- finally she gets there and you hold the door (that you have never stopped holding!). at least there was a thank you- that made it a bit better. oh, wait- sorry...i guess not all post office trips are like that.
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| panther's lair | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||