A whimsical assortment of things that totally jack my shit

So e-mail, right? E-to-tha-mail. Electronic mail.
Why is it that electronic mail can turn a perfectly intelligent, normal person into a blathering idiot? And I’m so totally including myself there, even though I said normal which as I have already established I am so very not. But just roll with it, kay baby?
Let us consider for a moment the notion of e-mail letters. You write an e-mail, then you send it out, and the person you sent it to gets the e-mail. Tight. Only it doesn’t work like that. What really happens is that you write an e-mail that says exactly what's on your mind, and you know you don't really plan on sending the damn thing. You just write what you really want to say and then you go through it and cut out the parts that are too introspective. Well, what really happens is that you fucking click “send” before you fucking edit the document, and you can do nothing about it but sit back and hope that person realizes that you're not such a douche bag as the email they got reveals you to be.
And it never, ever happens when you don't care what the person thinks, oh no. ’Cause that would allow you to cordon off your humiliation in a nice, manageable chunk. No, instead it happens when you’re sending an e-mail to someone are somewhat interested in. And you type your message and you click “send” and it’s like everything goes into slow motion like in a really fucking bad Michael Bay picture but I repeat myself.
And for the rest of the week, you wonder if the people in the next table over at Sue's are cracking jokes about how you should have your mittens safety-pinned to your jacket, and God you just wanna kill everybody.

So the other week, somebody sent me a package. They UPS’d this thing, and they apparently checked the little box that says “Make this motherfucker as inconvenient for the recipient as possible” and then they checked the little box below it that says “No really, for serious, make ’em suffer.”
And the UPS guy comes to my house, only I wasn’t home because I was busy with Army stuff. And instead of leaving the package he puts one of those little stickers on the door, you know the ones, the ones with the totally false air of sincerity and cheerfulness. “Sorry we missed you!” And then there’s like a fucking 1040 form or DD form, and if you want the driver to come back during the next full moon and leave your package for you in your mailbox with two black truffles and a tin of Osestra caviar on top, you check this thing and then sign this thing and then initial here and then attach a copy of your credit report or some shit.
So I spent like an hour filling out this form and I slapped it back on my door and went inside to do three quick shots of tequila.
Next day I come home all looking forward to my package and shit, and what do I find but another fucking 1040 form stuck to my door. And the driver guy had taken his little ballpoint pen and circled, like ten times, the tiny little print at the bottom that says “IN PERSON SIGNATURE REQUIRED.” Which is bogus, because there’s not gonna be an in-person to give a signature, because I already told you I’m out. So I got me a good annoyed on.
So the next day, on the Dart train, I call the little 800 number on the UPS door form thing, only it wasn’t an 800 number but like an 877 number or some shit but I still call ’em 800 numbers so deal. And I relate to the tomato on the other end of the line my tale of woe, and she’s all, “We can deliver that package to another address for you.”
I tell her yeah, take it to so-n-so which is the address of the place where I’m at, and like three hours later there’s the package sitting in front of me. Happy ending, right? All’s well and all that? Maybe you need to read the headline again, man. This post isn’t about happy endings. It’s about things that totally jack my shit. And when I took that package home and unleashed some red hot Swiss Army action on it and opened it up to find enclosed one (1) book about bartending (1) bartender kit, and (1) form to fill out by [X] date that already past to take the certification exam, my shit was well and truly jacked.
Also, women totally jack my shit. But that’s a whole other post all by itself.