Oh, creepy postman, how has it come to this? It began with your handshake, which held on too long, and attempted to draw me toward you. Yes, how you want to reel me in to your mid-sixties mid life crisis, so you have someone to cook for you, clean your too-much-like-the-show- Dallas-palace, and cook for you odd children. I want you know that the red hair dye, so wrong for you it turns your hair purple, frightens the good people of the town. Your overly attentive parcel delivery, fecund with insistence that I call you if I ever need anything, absolutely anything, like your old dick in my mouth, is redefining the concept of southern hospitality. The coup de grace was the little unnecessary postal customer form, suddenly requesting my phone number, at the risk of losing my delivery service, complete with a personal note to comply. So, I filled out your bullshit ploy. In the space twice circled, where you wanted my phone number, I wrote the words, “not applicable.” I would have been so happy to offer up the information, were it not for that lecherous, perversion in your eyes when you’re sticking your hand in my box.