Dear Delivery Man,

If you thought you were met with a blank stare this morning, it’s because I was trying really hard not to cry.

In the beginning, you knocked. It was an eager, insistent kind of knocking. The aggressiveness was always enough to make me jump.

Very quickly, knocking didn’t satisfy you. You discovered our doorbell. I don’t know if you know how a doorbell works, but generally, one push will do it. Several bursts is too much, even for a button happy toddler.

Also, you should never combine knocking and the doorbell. There is no reason.

Today you have sinned beyond that.

Not only did you knock on my door like you were trying to break it. Not only did you finger my doorbell like you were trying to satisfy it.

You frantically started yelling “IS ANYONE THERE?!”

I just don’t know if I can continue this relationship, delivery man. The urgency in your voice convinced me that it had to be more important than a parcel. I thought it must be the police, coming to evacuate us because of the incoming zombie apocalypse.

With a now screaming newborn I bolted down the stairs. I barely managed to put my boobs away.

So if you thought I was less than pleased by seeing you this morning, that’s because I was trying to bring my keyboard warriorism into real life. I was trying to find the confidence to tell you that your job isn’t so important that you need to molest my mornings the way you do.

Hell, even if you delivered organs you’d be too keen!

Cease. Desist. Or I might end up crying at you and you’ll feel really bad.



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