I went to the United States post office today. I had my mail forwarded to the main office here in Hemet rather than having my mail forwarded to the in-laws house. "Why?" you may ask. Well, I subscribe to some rather...male-oriented magazines. No porn. No Playboy. No Playgirl. Nothing like that. Just the soft stuff...Maxim, FHM, Stuff, Rolling Stone. It would be quite the controversy if these items showed up in Diana's mom's mailbox with my name on them.

So they go to the post office and I pick my mail up once a week there. But since we got here, my magazines haven't arrived...until today. The guy came out of the back with a stack of them. That wasn't so bad...but he had to go through them individually to make sure they all belonged to me. And he wasn't discreet about it, either. And there was a whole line of old people behind me. I could feel their judgemental eyes glaring at my soul. I wonder what they thought when the postal worker paused at the Rolling Stone with JT (Justin Timberlake, for those who aren't hip) standing there in a wet tshirt and in BIG, BOLD letters, the words WET DREAM next to him.

That's all.