A Postal Service Comedy of Errors (and My Increasingly Full Front Porch)
Seriously? One hundred and more packages? Delivered to my house? Because apparently, someone at the United States Postal Service has decided my humble D.C. abode is now the overflow storage facility for a local hotel. Im starting to think they’re intentionally trying to test my sanity, or perhaps assess how much cardboard one person can reasonably accumulate before collapsing under the weight of it all.
You know, I appreciate efficiency. Streamlining processes. Logical systems. But this? This is a masterpiece of bureaucratic absurdity. A testament to the utter lack of quality control and basic attention to detail that seems to plague… well, everything these days.
Ive become intimately acquainted with every shade of brown shipping tape. My neighbors probably think I’m running a black market operation. And my porch? Forget about it. It’s basically a mountain range of boxes addressed to people who don’t even live here!
And the best part? The absolute pinnacle of this ridiculousness? No one seems to care. Filing complaints feels like shouting into a void. Im starting to suspect the hotel is deliberately exploiting some loophole, laughing all the way to the bank while my curb appeal takes a nosedive. Its truly remarkable how much frustration can be generated by seemingly innocuous parcels.
