Packing and The Letter

In between last minute mental packlists and panic and awaited disappointment, there is so little me-time. But I hate it when the time finally comes, like right now, only to find anger and an almost-shamefulness presented to you in a neat little exploding package. It's terrifying facing that letter, sloshed in between other flimsy non-urgent documents because only the letter matters. For that moment, "late afternoon Tuesday" is the anticipated, awaited, agonized day. So rip it off. Sure. It's okay now that the worst of worsts have fallen into place.

Stupid fucking glued envelope and my misspelled name.

"I regret to have to advise you that you have not been elected..." they all sound the same, monotonous, repetitive. Almost apologetic.

... of course.