(no subject)
part of a half-formed thing
Pat’s pretty good about checking his mail every day. It’s a pretty tiny mailbox and the one time he went a few days without checking it, the mail carrier had left him the most passive aggressive note telling him the rest of his mail was at the post office and maybe he should submit a hold mail request next time he’s gonna be on vacation.
The guy’s a dick, pretty much, but yeah. The point is, Pat gets his mail every day.
And then leaves it on the table in the entryway for at least a week before he actually looks at it.
Turns out the mailman’s kind of shit at his job, because this week he’s got no fewer than four envelopes addressed to some dude named Toes who apparently lives directly above him. A couple of them even look like they might be important so, as much as he didn’t want to put on pants on his day off, Pat’s pulling on some sweats and flip flops to make the trek upstairs.
He’s really hoping nobody’s home so he can just push the mail under the door and get back to watching last night’s SportsCenter. But when he knocks, he hears this deep voice call out “Coming!” (which, like, who even does that? Pat could be a Jehovah’s Witness or vacuum cleaner salesman or something, why would you ever let people know you’re home before looking out the peephole, Jesus) and the sound of cupboards closing.
Pat’s still thinking about all the obnoxious door-to-door things he could be when the door swings open and holy shit. He has got to be better about meeting his neighbors if more of his neighbors look like this guy.
Pat’s pretty good about checking his mail every day. It’s a pretty tiny mailbox and the one time he went a few days without checking it, the mail carrier had left him the most passive aggressive note telling him the rest of his mail was at the post office and maybe he should submit a hold mail request next time he’s gonna be on vacation.
The guy’s a dick, pretty much, but yeah. The point is, Pat gets his mail every day.
And then leaves it on the table in the entryway for at least a week before he actually looks at it.
Turns out the mailman’s kind of shit at his job, because this week he’s got no fewer than four envelopes addressed to some dude named Toes who apparently lives directly above him. A couple of them even look like they might be important so, as much as he didn’t want to put on pants on his day off, Pat’s pulling on some sweats and flip flops to make the trek upstairs.
He’s really hoping nobody’s home so he can just push the mail under the door and get back to watching last night’s SportsCenter. But when he knocks, he hears this deep voice call out “Coming!” (which, like, who even does that? Pat could be a Jehovah’s Witness or vacuum cleaner salesman or something, why would you ever let people know you’re home before looking out the peephole, Jesus) and the sound of cupboards closing.
Pat’s still thinking about all the obnoxious door-to-door things he could be when the door swings open and holy shit. He has got to be better about meeting his neighbors if more of his neighbors look like this guy.