Seen by Ellen on the Metra train this morning.
Junk. Junk! That's all I ever get in the mail. Piles and piles of it. I have it all with me in this bag. 103 letters--I counted. Long, bland envelopes with little plastic windows, all addressed to "Resident" or "To Whom It May Concern." Well guess what? Your advertisements, deals, and scams don't concern me, thank-you very much! And yet they always continue to send them. Endlessly. That's why I have to destroy them.
You know voodoo dolls? The letters are voodoo dolls; the return address in the upper left-hand corner permanently binds them to the senders. And I like to hurt the senders. I take the first envelope, jam my finger under the flap and tear it open, leaving it jagged and gaping. I can hear the paper scream as I do it. Then I remove the contents and tear it into small pieces. One strip, two strips, three, four, five. Then I halve those strips. I decapitate and disembowel the obnoxious words. I remove their meaning.
A woman next to me glares. Well, she'd better get used to it. I have 102 more letters to go, 102 more revenges to be had.
This story was suggested to me by Ellen Prather of 8 Eyes Photography. She apparently saw this OCD guy loudly tearing up junk mail on the Metra, so I decided to give him a personality. Good times. In other news, I'm going to bake some cookies tonight. Yum yum yum.