I was going to show you the formula that Wired Magazine says destroyed our economy, but it just got too complicated, which might have been the problem in the first place. From there, the plan was to segue into a discussion of a possible formula to use at work. Last summer, as you may remember, our routes were "adjusted", perhaps by a chiropractor on crack cocaine. Now they're all, "We eliminated 3 routes, we should be saving time, why's all this mail piling up?"
Anyhoo, I had planned to talk about irritations (almost infinite, and expanding) at work, and the chances that I'd ever get my route caught up (infinitesimal and shrinking) but when I got home, I found something that put it all in perspective. Ellie has lost her pink ball, which means the world to her...
Except the phone rang, I got up and walked around while I was talking and I found her ball, so yeah, good for her, the post office sucks.
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