Dear Mum 01. (Environmental Endolphins Swimming).
March 31st 2008 11:19
Oh, I can die in peace now.
I don't think I'll even bother trying to be much of a blogger. I'll just put my son's letters up. I'm going to number them!!!
Today was his birthday. He wrote to me. What more could a mother wish for?
Here is his letter.
Dear Mum,
Birthdays come and go. It was just another day. One of the saints said we shouldn't even celebrate our birthdays, because it was the day we were born with the stain of Original Sin on our souls. He preferred to celebrate his Baptismal day. And said our real birthday was the day we were born into eternal life. As in, our death. (I like that. It makes sense to me).
Anyway, Mondays are huge days for posties. They're always the biggest day of the week. I start at 6.30am on Mondays. I was half-cut on the way to work this morning. Make that 3/4 cut. I spent the entire weekend drinking and writing. I've gone completely off eating. (It's boring eating alone, so I'd rather just not eat at all). I just yell out at the power-joggers on my way to work. Things like, 'Baby!'
Then I nearly crashed into a street sign. (I wish women would wear more clothes in public). Anyway, I got to work on time. Started sorting the mail for my postal round. Which is in Grange. I'ts a humongous round. 1200 houses (or points as they call them in postie lingo). So that took me 6 hours to sort. I finally loaded up the postie bike and hit the road at 1pm. I didn't finish until 6.30pm. It was dark. I was putting the letters in front of the postie bike headlight to read the addresses.
But I don't know of a better job than this one for someone like me. I mean the day was magnificent and glorious and everything you'd want a day to be. There I was burning around on the footpath, just looking at the mailbox slots and trying not to think of women. It's the vertical slots that get to me most.
I'll be ripped soon mum. I'll have a six pack at home in the fridge, and a six-pack washboard stomach. I'll take photos of myself and put them up on the net. Just to tease women. It's only justice.
Oh, did I tell you, I've turned gay again?
Settle, mum. I'm only joking, okay?
I love this working for a living. I didn't want to finish tonight. I wanted to deliver post until midnight.
I honestly think God put me on this earth to work. God I love work. I'll end up desiring martydrom soon.
We have a break from 10am until 10.30 for lunch. A food van comes around, and blows it's musical horn. All the posties just stop immediately and flock to it like hungry seagulls. They're a bunch of scavengars, posties. I think they're all on health kicks. I mean the food is absolute shit. I'm suprised a couple of Vegans weren't there protesting?
There's two women who drive the food van. One is one drug-stuffed individual. But she has a lovely bum-crack. I forget all about food when she is there, and just stare at her bum crack.
The other woman is quite buxom. She likes posties. Especially when they mention how great her tits are? She's a really nice woman. She just has a laugh.
I usually buy a sausage roll. I bought one this morning. But I didn't eat it. I just put it on my V-frame sorting table. And ignored it. I work on a couple of coffees and a few cigarettes most days. I'm on an alcohol / tobacco/ coffee detox? I worked for twelve hours and just didn't have time to eat. I brought the sausage roll home in my rucksack. It's still there. It's full of preservatives anyway. It will still be edible in 2049.
Yep. I was born to work. I was born to suffer. Yet the funny thing? Work ain't suffering. Work is fun. I love working.
I just come home each night and drink a six pack, or a slab on Friday nights. Until I run out and go and get another one? Usually around 11pm. Do you think drinking 20 cans of beer between 6pm and 11pm is a bit excessive? I don't. I think it's normal. Sometimes I think about how wonderful it would be to have a woman in my life, so I would enjoy eating. But that's not going to happen. Women don't like blokes who drink and smoke. They want to marry white-picket guys who are wowsers and yes-men? I'll pay for sex if I ever want a root, mum. You pay for it if you get married anyway?
I am definitely insane, mum.
Work is a drug to me, mum. I get high on it. It gets my environmental endolphins swimming.
I wonder why it took me 48 years to work out what was good for me? I'll just leave it all up to the mercy of God. Some days I just tell Him to get stuffed. And leave me alone. But I think that's a kickback from dad.
How He puts up with me is beyond me. I'm not going to get away with my lifestyle for ever. But if Australia Post keep the work up and make me work for twelve hours each day? I'll end up losing interest in things like enjoyment. I'll end up enjoying suffering.
The most bizarre thing is this. It's not suffering at all.
I was going to give up wanking for Lent this year. Some days my loins just burn with such an intense heat, all I want to do is explode inside a woman. Thank God for work. I don't have time to wank. I'm under PRP (Performance Review Procedures), being a newbie. I call them Pump Arse Pressure Reviews. These guys are pumping my arse, mum. It's okay. I can deal with it.
I learnt the most valuable lesson in life. Dumb-Down.
Love, David ...
I don't think I'll even bother trying to be much of a blogger. I'll just put my son's letters up. I'm going to number them!!!
Today was his birthday. He wrote to me. What more could a mother wish for?
Here is his letter.
Dear Mum,
Birthdays come and go. It was just another day. One of the saints said we shouldn't even celebrate our birthdays, because it was the day we were born with the stain of Original Sin on our souls. He preferred to celebrate his Baptismal day. And said our real birthday was the day we were born into eternal life. As in, our death. (I like that. It makes sense to me).
Anyway, Mondays are huge days for posties. They're always the biggest day of the week. I start at 6.30am on Mondays. I was half-cut on the way to work this morning. Make that 3/4 cut. I spent the entire weekend drinking and writing. I've gone completely off eating. (It's boring eating alone, so I'd rather just not eat at all). I just yell out at the power-joggers on my way to work. Things like, 'Baby!'
Then I nearly crashed into a street sign. (I wish women would wear more clothes in public). Anyway, I got to work on time. Started sorting the mail for my postal round. Which is in Grange. I'ts a humongous round. 1200 houses (or points as they call them in postie lingo). So that took me 6 hours to sort. I finally loaded up the postie bike and hit the road at 1pm. I didn't finish until 6.30pm. It was dark. I was putting the letters in front of the postie bike headlight to read the addresses.
But I don't know of a better job than this one for someone like me. I mean the day was magnificent and glorious and everything you'd want a day to be. There I was burning around on the footpath, just looking at the mailbox slots and trying not to think of women. It's the vertical slots that get to me most.
I'll be ripped soon mum. I'll have a six pack at home in the fridge, and a six-pack washboard stomach. I'll take photos of myself and put them up on the net. Just to tease women. It's only justice.
Oh, did I tell you, I've turned gay again?
Settle, mum. I'm only joking, okay?
I love this working for a living. I didn't want to finish tonight. I wanted to deliver post until midnight.
I honestly think God put me on this earth to work. God I love work. I'll end up desiring martydrom soon.
We have a break from 10am until 10.30 for lunch. A food van comes around, and blows it's musical horn. All the posties just stop immediately and flock to it like hungry seagulls. They're a bunch of scavengars, posties. I think they're all on health kicks. I mean the food is absolute shit. I'm suprised a couple of Vegans weren't there protesting?
There's two women who drive the food van. One is one drug-stuffed individual. But she has a lovely bum-crack. I forget all about food when she is there, and just stare at her bum crack.
The other woman is quite buxom. She likes posties. Especially when they mention how great her tits are? She's a really nice woman. She just has a laugh.
I usually buy a sausage roll. I bought one this morning. But I didn't eat it. I just put it on my V-frame sorting table. And ignored it. I work on a couple of coffees and a few cigarettes most days. I'm on an alcohol / tobacco/ coffee detox? I worked for twelve hours and just didn't have time to eat. I brought the sausage roll home in my rucksack. It's still there. It's full of preservatives anyway. It will still be edible in 2049.
Yep. I was born to work. I was born to suffer. Yet the funny thing? Work ain't suffering. Work is fun. I love working.
I just come home each night and drink a six pack, or a slab on Friday nights. Until I run out and go and get another one? Usually around 11pm. Do you think drinking 20 cans of beer between 6pm and 11pm is a bit excessive? I don't. I think it's normal. Sometimes I think about how wonderful it would be to have a woman in my life, so I would enjoy eating. But that's not going to happen. Women don't like blokes who drink and smoke. They want to marry white-picket guys who are wowsers and yes-men? I'll pay for sex if I ever want a root, mum. You pay for it if you get married anyway?
I am definitely insane, mum.
Work is a drug to me, mum. I get high on it. It gets my environmental endolphins swimming.
I wonder why it took me 48 years to work out what was good for me? I'll just leave it all up to the mercy of God. Some days I just tell Him to get stuffed. And leave me alone. But I think that's a kickback from dad.
How He puts up with me is beyond me. I'm not going to get away with my lifestyle for ever. But if Australia Post keep the work up and make me work for twelve hours each day? I'll end up losing interest in things like enjoyment. I'll end up enjoying suffering.
The most bizarre thing is this. It's not suffering at all.
I was going to give up wanking for Lent this year. Some days my loins just burn with such an intense heat, all I want to do is explode inside a woman. Thank God for work. I don't have time to wank. I'm under PRP (Performance Review Procedures), being a newbie. I call them Pump Arse Pressure Reviews. These guys are pumping my arse, mum. It's okay. I can deal with it.
I learnt the most valuable lesson in life. Dumb-Down.
Love, David ...
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