The Most Dangerous Game

Yesterday I spent a solid hour and a half at the post office.

Entering the building with a pile of gifts under my arm and a bag of save the dates in my sweaty little palm, I was nevertheless the picture of chrismassy-weddingy cheer. I managed to keep this facade through my first round in line, but when I entered into the second go round (on account of being ONE MOTHERFUCKING STAMP short) my grin had melted off my smug little face.

I had left work an hour early and come into the establishment with three goals in mind:

-send out G's Christmas packages so that I can make up for forgetting his birthday with awesome please-dont-hate-me gifts
-send out the 121 (that number would come to haunt me) save-the-date cards that had taken up residence on my coffee table.
-get a new passport because the crap for brains government employees had decided that I was born in Belgium when I renewed last year.

The first two goals were met easily enough, albeit shaving off a decade of my life and half of my heel (dont wear uncomfortable shoes to stand in line). But the third, oh the third. I think maybe the abominable snowman works the passport office. Because he is NEVER there. Also he is the one that decided I was born in Belgium last year, and I hear snowmen are retarded.

I have gone to the post office twice previously, and each time been told that he is not working on the day I have come in (different days respectively). Yesterday I was told that he had left early. When I had the gumption to ask if he would be around at 4ish today, I was told that maybe, but it was really luck of the draw. Because who works til five on a Tuesday?

What the abominable passport man doesnt know is that I am stubborn as hell. And. I . Will. Never. Give. Up. The lady at the ID office learned that earlier this year, when she tested how many times I would assault her voicemail (infinite number). And now passport guy will see my wrath.

Good luck old man. Its Christmas Break and I got aaaall day.