Crossing the Picket Line

I am sad to say that I fell off the wagon. I broke the picket line...I am officially a scrub. As the daughter of the former President of Teamsters Local CENSORED, I am deeply ashamed of myself. Despite years of protest, this morning I set foot inside the United States Post Office.

While there is no excuse for my behavior, I feel I must defend myself as best as possible. The reason for my extreme betrayal? I was being blackmailed.

When I went to get my mail yesterday, there was a sinister little orange card stuffed in with the usual junk. It read, "WE HAVE YOUR PACKAGE. IF YOU EVER WANT TO SEE IT AGAIN, YOU WILL COME PICK IT UP AT THE NEWINGTON POST OFFICE TOMORROW AT 8:00 AM. ALONE."

The contents of this package were too valuable for me to ignore. I had to break my boycott. They had me.

I set my alarm an hour early, knowing what was in store for me at the vile PO. For a non-morning person like myself, this was torture. My plan was simple: get to the PO right when it opened so as to avoid any unnecessary delays in the ransom exchange.

I walked in the door at 8:05 am (dodging the rotten fruit being thrown at my head by other angry picketers), orange note in hand, ready to make the exchange. Once inside, I was reminded of why I hate the PO. 10 people in line, 1 teller, all of them clutching their orange cards. I hadn't realized that I wasn't the only being victimized by this institution. There were others like me forced to partake.

The details of what went on inside that building this morning are too traumatic to relate. Thankfully, at 8:30 am. I walked out clutching my package dearly.

I feel like a fraud. My head has been bowed in shame all day at the fact that those bastards got the better of me. Tomorrow, after this is a faint memory, I will be back on my soapbox. They will not win. Down with the post office!

But now I have my Halloween costume!