Explain To Your Mail Carrier What Love Is Day!

Today you’re going to bump into your mail carrier just as she finishes loading up the boxes in the lobby of your building.

“Hey there,” she says. “Long as I have you for a sec, what’s love?”

“Hang on,” you say.

You open your mailbox and pull out this week’s letters marked return to sender. Six new ones.

“This is love,” you say, letting her hold the unopened letters, each one containing several dozen instances of the words “please” and “forgive.”

“All this time,” the mail carrier says, “I’ve been lugging love around in my sack and I didn’t even know it.”

“Wanna get drunk?” you ask.

You and your mail carrier get drunk and take turns opening people’s mail and reading the letters out loud in high-pitched girly voices. Looks like you have a new friend.

Happy Explain To Your Mail Carrier What Love Is Day!

Rich And Mean Day!

“Why aren’t your clothes fantastic?” the rich people ask. They’ve invited you to stop waiting on them and sit down for a while. Your manager told you to do whatever they say.

“I can’t afford to look fantastic,” you explain. “I can only afford to look cute.”

They ask what you expect to do with your life if the best you can hope for is cute.

“I just want to be happy,” you say.

They stare at you, unsure how you expect that to happen if you have to settle for cute.

“We aren’t making ourselves clear,” says the man in the suit that billows around him with the breeze. “Everything is ours. Everything we want. Comparatively, you have nothing. This sickens us.”

You wait for more, for them to ask a question.

“It’s disgusting,” his sister, whose skin looks like an ocean at sunset, adds.

“It upsets me to be in your presence,” the billowy suited man says.

You ask them why they’re telling you all this. You’re handed a brochure.

“It’s an underground city that’s being built for you and others in your situation,” you’re told. “Every basic need will be provided for you, and nothing more. We’re using our own funds to pay for its construction so that you can finally leave the surface of the earth.”

You look through the brochure. The bedrooms are slightly bigger than the one you sleep in right now.

“No sunlight?” you ask.

They shrug. “Sunlight is free, currently. But rent isn’t. Would you rather have free sunlight or free rent?”

The youngest, thinnest, and most beautiful of them leans forward, her dress collar hanging open for you to see the entire stretch of her flawless body. She takes your hand and says, “We just want you all to go into a hole and stay there. And we dug a very nice hole for you.”

There’s a date on the brochure. Six months from today.

“That’s the deadline,” the man in the billowy suit says. “Up until then, it’s voluntary.”

You fold the brochure into your apron and you get up from the table to go back to work.

“You’re welcome,” the beautiful girl says as she pours wine into a napkin and scrubs at the hand that touched yours.

Happy Rich And Mean Day!

Fancy Artist Loft Party Day!

The artist is angry and he’s spitting champagne on his guests and they love it. His wife is enchanting people with conversation. The ceilings are 20 feet above the tops of the guests’ heads, looking down on their bald spots and dandruff-dusted parts with disgust. The paintings on the walls are the size of trucks and they don’t mean a thing. The artist assistants are starving but drunk, one is crying, the other just jumped out the window, the third is calling her dad. The gallery owner has a one-way plane ticket to Berlin in his jacket pocket and no one knows this party and the city it’s in is already dead, Berlin is where it’s at. The ceilings rise higher, 45 feet now, getting further away from the freshly-dyed roots. You’re excited about the open bar and you stuff some cheese in your pocket for the train ride later because you’re new here, shocked to have even been invited. The artist is down to his torn underwear and he just grabbed the ass of a 66-year-old billionaire heiress and lover of dogs. 55 feet now, the loft upstairs obliterated. One of the artist assistants has a knife, but the other is talking her out of it. A 75-foot ceiling. The artist sees you. He sees something in you. Himself? He’s cross-legged on the ground in his underwear, waving you over. 110 feet. The knife clatters to the ground and the artist’s wife is making love to the gallery owner on the artist’s bed. The assistant who gave up on the idea of the knife absently watches them fuck when she isn’t checking her phone. “I admire your work,” you tell the artist. 200 feet. “You’re the one,” the artist says. It’s time for him to tumble out of fashion. Time to take someone under his wing, resent their youth, corrupt them so they have it just as bad as he does when they get the 300-foot ceiling. 345 feet now. “You’re the one,” he says. You glow and you stammer and the ceiling crosses the 500-foot mark, crashing into the bottom of a local news station’s traffic helicopter. The assistant climbs into bed with them. The artist throws on a pair of sweatpants, grabs your hand and drags you onto the elevator, presses down. You both get out seconds before the ceiling shatters bringing the party to an end.

Happy Fancy Artist Loft Party Day!