On Monday, I received one of those "sorry we missed you" slips from the postal carrier informing me that I needed to sign for a delivery. I'd been out of the house for half an hour tops running errands between long bouts of being stuck inside busting my ass for my clients, and had only just missed the postal carrier. I was expecting edits and a contract from one of my clients and was annoyed that I missed the delivery. Of course, the slip was barely filled out, so I had no idea if they were going to try again or if I had to pick up the package at the post office. Tuesday came and went, and even though I went through the trouble of putting a sign on my door asking the postal carrier to get one of my neighbors to sign for the delivery if I happened to be out, nothing came. Not even another "sorry we missed you" slip.
So today I made the nearly one mile hike to the post office to pick up the package. After waiting in line for fifteen minutes, I finally collected it. The return label read Attention Whore Press, with a street address that corresponds to Eden Studios in Albany, just like the one I got back in December. (Though according to the meter postage, it was actually mailed in Cambridge, NY.) Sure enough, inside, amid a ton of packing peanuts, were six Superballs. Small ones designed to look like eyes.
I was so ticked off I threw them away right there in the post office. The joke had already been growing old, but now it's costing me unnecessary time, effort and stress. The trip to the post office took an hour out of my day that I could have been using to get these freelance projects done, keep my clients happy, and clear my plate so I could, you know, have a life.
I'm over it. It was funny for a while, but this shit has to stop. Now.