Dear UPS Man,
Where is my fucking copy of Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince?
Do you realize that if I knew now what I didn't know yesterday afternoon, when you delivered that gigantic package for my husband, and that is that my book was probably on your truck right at that moment, that I probably would have slept with you if you had given me my book early? Damn you, UPS man. Where the hell are you? It is 9:47 a.m. and if my daughter opens the front door, letting out the air conditioning and letting in the humid, stale, nasty hot July Chicago air one more time and slams it shut, moaning in grief because my, I mean her, book isn't sitting on the stoop, I'm going to get in the car and come looking for you.
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