Cranky, Cranky, Cranky

How cranky am I? I am so cranky I want a cigarette and I don't smoke. I am so cranky I could commit bodily violence. So cranky three little vanilla scones and a coffee from Starbucks have not helped (although thanks again MFA Jane for the giftcard). I am so cranky I am swearing. There is foul language below--stop reading right now if you want to keep your illusion that I am a nice girl and in any way a lady. Please.


*****
Dear USPS,

Look here, you stump-sucking motherfuckers--what the fuck happened to my boxes? On June 24th I sent myself 3 boxes. Parcel Post with tracking. 2 have arrived after 10 days. Not happy, but at least I have my stationery, my contact lenses, my important papers, pictures of my dad, and my briefcase. And Clocky, thank heavens. Where's the other box? Did you steal my shoes, you catatonic morons playing at customer service? Because the tracking slip says it never left the post office. Now I have to try and straighten it out on my end. For the love of god I know my mother thinks you're convenient but there's NOTHING CONVENIENT ABOUT NOT GETTING YOUR STUFF.

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What the fuck is up with people putting on their business phone messages that they will return your call "at my earliest convenience?" How incredibly snotty. Look, I'm calling on business--call me back when you can attend to my call and have time to address my questions properly, not when it's convenient for you. Because you fucking owe me a call back in a timely manner and whatever help or attention you can give.