Inside the post office, there is a package. This package is, you are entirely aware, for you. You know that it has to be there. The oracle has spoken. The orcale does not lie. The oracle is Amazon.com and it tracks shipping. The oracle has a paper trail leading to the package, which is for you and inside the post office.
The post office has not deemed you worthy of your package. Instead, the post office has (upon your repeated inquiries as to the whereabots of your package) responded by telling you 1) "Amazon gets stuff wrong a lot", 2) "Yeah, it could be here. I don't know, there's a lot a shit we haven't processed." 3) "What the hell could be so important anyway?" and 4) "I'm really fucking busy here, okay?"
You, however, are intrepid. You are bold. You are persistent. You are determined that the post office's aggression towards you will not stand.
You are also alone in the post office. There is no one else there, not in the entire cave like edifice. You try the door to where they keep the packages, but it's locked. You begin to turn around, dispirited, and leave the post office, but then you remember that you are intrepid.
You eye the (waist high for many people, but for you somewhat higher than that) counter top beyond which you can see the shelves filled with packages, one of which you know to be yours. You look left, you look right, you begin to hum the Mission Impossible theme song as you back up enough to make a running leap and hoist yourself up onto the counter top.
When that doesn't work the first time, you do it again, humming more vehemently this time and dropping the purse that's clearly the only reason you became unbalanced and knocked over an entire display of memorial stamps.
On the floor, a strip of singing Elvises (Elvii?) wink encouragingly and up you go! And then down you go, as you fall off on the other side, but you do not go quietly. No, you take a desk chair down with you, squeaking as you go.
This merits a ten second motionless silent pause on the floor of the post office, staring wide eyed at the door through which you've convinced yourself someone is about to burst.
Intrepid, you remind yourself, intrepid.
You are so intrepid that you crawl across the floor, skittering from sorting bin to sorting bin for cover mind furiously coming up with explanations/excuses/back up plans should you be discovered, and lo! There it is!
The shelf! And upon the shelf -- a package, with your name emblazoned upon it in large black letters!
"Yes," you crow, exultant, waving your arms in the air, and dancing as you recover, finally, your prodigal package. You shake it against your ear, hoping to be able to discern the contents from the sound, but alas, this hasn't worked once in your entire life, and doesn't work now.
Scissors gleam temptingly on the desk, as if to say, "Yes, yes, use us, open your package, do it now!!" but you, wisely, pass them by.
For, lo! In the distance, what can be heard but the clomping of booted feet! Headed toward you!
Across the barrier your scramble, standing on the desk chair and several important looking documents, and catching your shirt on the countertop. A thread hangs behind you as you crawl down, and you wrestle with it in increasing anxiety as the shoes get closer ....closer....closer....until finally the thread snaps, and you grab your purse.
The door clicks open, and you shove your package into your purse viciously, red faced, and wide eyed.
"Hey, can I help you?" asks the post office employee.
Elvis winks conspiratorially at you from the ground below you as you search for something to say.
"You all right?" the employee asks, concerned at the wordless noises you're making.
You blink at him, and say, finally, "I'm fine. I have -- you know. Too much sun. Had to come inside. Gets hot. My head," and make a gesture that could widely be interpreted as "I am, in fact, insane". And then you turn around, and walk away as FAST AS YOU CAN.
You are in a horrible mood. Horrible, no good, very bad. You are, in fact, in a funk of epic proportions. Everything angers you. The small children picking flowers picturesquely by your window sicken you. You want to throw your fake plants at their heads. Next door, your favorite song is playing.
You decide that you, actually, hate that song and music in general. There is no good use for it. Except for Radiohead, which only serves to push you further into your funk. You put on clothes you've had since you were fifteen, put your hair up in a pony tail, and sulk experimentally at the mirror, simulating your own teenage angst.
Yeah, you decide. You've still got it.
You stalk into the kitchen, and open the refrigerator door, stare at everything inside and deem it all unworthy. You slam the door, and this makes a satisfying noise. So you pick up a can of bread crumbs and bang it against the counter, and open and close every cabinet loudly. You cross your arms and stare at everything in disgust, and then kick the throw rug in the kitchen.
This doesn't make a satisfying noise, and instead tangles around your foot. There's something slimy on it, and it's touching your skin. You start waving your arms over your head and making high pitched noises as you kick your foot around, trying to get the rug off it.
The rug is caught in your sandles, and staying for the duration.
"OMIGOD OMIGOD OMIGOD," you shriek, "EW EW EW WHAT IS ON MY FOOT OMIGOD".
You kick your shoe off, and it flies across the room. The rug decides this is far more of a commitment to your shoe than it is willing to make, and flops dejectedly back to the floor. The shoe, on the other hand, ricochets off the wall, out the window.
You frantically clean the rug-yogurt (and that's the only thing you're going to admit it could be because anything else is frankly too upsetting) off your foot, making a silent promise to yourself to disenfect your life later, and rush outside.
However, once outside, you realize that you are no longer Sullen. You still want to feel Sullen, so you slow yourself down so much that the person behind you walks bodily into you, and falls down. You remain upright, and offer a hand, being sure to silently resent it because you are Sullen.
"Hey, thanks," the person says, standing up and dusting himself.
You shrug, and look away. "Yeah, whatever," you mutter doing your best Sullen.
"Wait -- wait, is that really you?" the man says, and when you look up, you feel a little part of yourself curl up and start rocking back and forth because standing in front of you is the person you were in love with for over a year.
"How are you?" he asks, and the ground, unfortunately, doesn't open up and swallow you. Then he looks down and says, "And why are you only wearing one shoe?"
There is no good answer to that question. You know it. He knows it. Everyone knows it. And still, still, you try. Except, when you try, instead of saying something coherent and understandable to any other member of the human race, you say all in one breath, "Well -- I was being fifteen and then the rug spat yogurt on me, and I kicked out the window and then you were there."
He blinks, nods slowly and says, "So you're still doing the same, huh?"