"I've got this killer up inside of me... I can't talk to my mother, (friends, women, coworkers, associates, affiliates, city council, the internets, the homeless or even your mother) so I talk to my diary."

-that Scarface song from Office Space

The Postal Service is Death Magnetic

If you haven’t noticed that your open mailbox looks just like the myspace.com or yahoo.com homepages or perhaps even as if a cyclops had eaten every billboard in your town and shit it out directly in there, then you must live in a shanty built out of newspaper in the alley behind a shitty movie store… which do not typically have an address.

Coming home to an open metal mailbox straining against the surplusage of coupons and ads that nearly outweigh it is a disgrace for the fact that I have to waste thirty seconds of my life to drop what I am currently carrying inside, lift a waste-of-tree-life clot from the box, check to assure that no real mail has been absorbed by it and toss it over the rail into the perfectly placed outside trash bin. It’s as if the landlord was actually thinking, “They are going to need this right here.” And I do. Just to make for certain that any necessary mail of mine isn’t discharged into the snow by this volcano of spittle harrowing my mailbox every week.

I’m convinced that I need to ‘Kramer’ my way to the post office and send this shit, in a heaping pile that could fill Santa’s sleigh, back to the aggressors themselves. I like Maddox’s idea of sending junk mail to those who send me credit card applications, abusing their prepaid envelopes. But what do I do about the junk mail itself?

A general without a mission…
until I start the war again,
B-rie KJ

-Tuesday, January 27, 2009

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