Post Awful

EDIT: Hahahahaha! FUCK YOU MILTON! My package with the non-sticky paper taped on label arrived yesterday!
*Kevin Bacon in TREMORS* "Fuuuuhhhuhhuuuhhhhhck YEWWWWW!"

You know what constitutes too long a stay inside a post office trying to get something mailed?

When you see someone you haven't seen in four fucking years.

I still didn't get the package mailed from there, either. The Milton I got the second time wouldn't take my printed Express Mail postage because:


"...em, it wasn't, em, on...sticky-backed paper? "

That's right folks, in the time it took me to repackage the commission I was mailing into a flat rate envelope (about 30-40 minutes using a broken-off key, not kidding about the key), my previously okay-to-stick-down-with-tape-as-long-as-you-don't-cover-the-barcode postage was unacceptable. Apparently, the magical USPS fairy dust only adheres well to "sticky-back paper" and wept out of my plain-paper Stamps.com postage for $14.40 because I did not move fast enough.

The Milton said he looked it up. I'm so sure the allegedly six-inch thick (that's how high Milton held his hand to demostrate the thickness of the official manual) uses the term "sticky-back paper." I bet it also says, "Be an incredible douche," too.

Boy, who has a talent for picking up on when people are being uptight assholes, thudded his shoe on to the counter to pull up his sock. The Milton twitched. I told Boy to take his foot off. He did, and immediately replaced it with the other foot. I snapped at Boy (who really shouldn't be doing things like that).

I finally had to ask Milton to stop talking, as I was about to blow my stack. I thanked him for wasting my time, and left. I stopped at our friend Shon's house, borrowed some tape, taped the postage down, and hucked that fucking albatross of a package into my local Express Mail box.

In Other News

Milton at the P.O. (he thinks it means "Piss Off!") aside, the day was not so bad. I have my first new set of Prismacolor pencils in, gee, a decade? There's something so Crayola 64 color box with a sharpener about art supplies that NEVER gets old. I got a 24-pencil set, because 48 was too extravagant, and no one seems to carry 32.

The bruises on myself from heaving through the window continue to develop like the world's slowest Polaroid picture. (Perhaps if I shakemyself, the greens will come faster!) I keep finding new ones.
My right thigh has a blue Pangaea I can't completely cover with my hand.
My left calf has a nice yellow-red-purple one that's swollen.
My right calf, more purple.
My butt, tender.
My left bicep, purple hickey-looking thing.
I don't remember it hurting when I came through the window. Kinda scrapey, sure, but not "Oh, that's gonna leave a mark!" discomfort. I look like I've been in a fight.

My jeans, it turns out, tore in two places on the seat. Better my jeans than my ass, but DAMN.

And crap, it's 2:30, King has to fucking go in early, and Girl wants to make a lightning run to Walgreen's for a disposable camera to document her last day of school for the year.

How I am looking forward to Monday, and I am. No lunch to pack. No uniform pieces to find. No homework. No bullies. Just us weirdoes and a pool and drawing and clay for ten weeks.