Last Tuesday, I came home to find a delivery confirmation notice in my mailbox. I was extra delighted because the return address was–well, it wasn’t technically anyone I know because your postal worker is apparently too lazy to copy down the return address properly, but it was what I can only assume was Former Housemate, KS. This! This was the package I had been waiting for! It was the happiest Tuesday of my life!
Now, I was given two options on this notice. First, I could take the form to a post office in Northeast DC and collect the package with proper identification. This was clearly impossible, because a) if I had time to dick around in NE during the day, I would have time to be at home to sign the package and b) since the package was addressed to “Losers at [REDACTED] St, NW, Washington DC, 20001,” it would be rather hard to bring appropriate identification. So I took Option B, which was to sign that the package could be left with no one home, and put the slip back in my mailbox.
Wednesday, I came home and checked the mail, and I have never been so disappointed to find a package with my penpal’s handwriting on it. Not that she doesn’t send great stuff, but I thought for a second that you had actually delivered KS’s package, the very day after I signed for it! Like a normal shipping company! But no, instead I found the confirmation slip crumpled at the bottom of my mailbox under all the other mail, because your mail carrier was too lazy to do his/her job and pick up outgoing mail! So I got some tape and stuck it to the mailbox, sure that it couldn’t be missed a second time.
Thursday evening came, and though the confirmation notice was gone, no package had arrived. “No matter,” I thought. “I bet they just don’t carry the packages with them until they receive the signed confirmation slip.”
But Friday, it was still not there. Nor Saturday nor Monday. And then today I got home, and still no package.
Fuck you, USPS.
And don’t try to blame local miscreants, stealing stuff off the front porch. Because I do a lot of online shopping. I haven’t set foot in an actual clothing store since October. And that shit gets delivered and not stolen all the time. And sometimes my penpal gets her family members to creepily leave things on my front porch, and THAT doesn’t get stolen either. I’m pretty sure you’re the weak variable here.
Look, USPS. You have screwed me over a lot since I moved to this city. My housemates and I have had a lot of key pieces of mail go missing–thank you notes, my health insurance information, credit cards that were somehow activated and used despite never having arrived–and other things arrive three months after they were sent. THREE MONTHS. DOMESTICALLY. I could get things to Siberia, on foot, faster than that! And despite complaining about our mail carrier multiple times, nothing has ever been done about it. I have pretty low expectations for you, USPS. But never has something of such great import gone missing before.
Because USPS, I’m pretty sure that package contained my one true love: pineapple cakes.
Pineapple cakes are possibly Taiwan’s greatest contribution to the world. (And Taiwan makes some pretty cool shit!) I was deprived of the glory of pineapple cakes for many years, because according to KLin, “They are too delicious to share.” Seriously, girl brought eighty back in her suitcase this year. Eighty. But when I met her for lunch last week, she conveniently “forgot” to bring any with her. Luckily, KS is not so greedy as her and started bringing them back for us whenever he went home for the holidays. And then we finally understood KLin’s hoarding, because they are AMAZING.
|A box of pineapple cakes that K acquired by harassing A Taiwanese Person at her office|
I was a little concerned that my supply would dry up when KS moved to LA last summer, so I started dropping subtle hints prior to his return to Taiwan. That is, for a month, I texted him things like “DON’T FORGET MY PCAKES” and “REMEMBER ALL THOSE CARE PACKAGES I SENT YOU?”
And now it is all for naught, because some assclown postal worker is chowing down on my PCakes somewhere, even though he or she almost certainly doesn’t appreciate how delicious they are. If my package were here, you could currently be reading a post announcing my impending marriage to Pineapple Cakes, including some elaborately photoshopped engagement pictures featuring my beloved. Instead:
YOU EVEN MADE KLIN SAD, AND SHE HAS EIGHTY PCAKES STASHED IN HER APARTMENT IN MANHATTAN RIGHT NOW.
This is the last straw, USPS. I can’t even complain properly because you took back the only documentation I had that my package existed. I’M MAD AS HELL AND I’M NOT GOING TO TA–oh wait, yes I am, because you are a state-sponsored monopoly, even though you are the very worst!