So I have a theory. It is this:
In a former life I was a bandit. I spent my days chasing and robbing the Pony Express riders. (I wanted some of them fancy Sears-Roebuck catalogs. They makes real good outhouse paper.) I killed me a few of them, and their damn ponies... with my boom stick.
So, that is my theory. I do believe that Shirley MacLaine would agree, although I fear that some of the details may be anachronistic (was Sears-Roebuck even around then? Doubt it. But they do make for some good outhouse paper.)
The reason this theory exists is the simple fact that I cannot order anything through USPS- which is the modern Pony Express, without it being stolen destroyed, lost, eaten by fruit bats, or some such surreal scenario. I know this happens to lots of people sometimes. It happens to me every time. No lie. The only logical explanation is that I am paying my karmic debt for those Pony Express boys I did wrong in my past life. Here is proof:
This is a package ordered by anyone else on earth but me. It is happy. It hangs out, lounging on a bright throw pillow adorned with a happy bear. Life is beautiful:
Now, compare to the following package that was addressed to me, which was eviscerated before even reaching the post office and its contents arriving separately, and by chance. Life is hell, and he now has a drinking problem and a bad attitude:
When you are a box that is destined to be sent to my house- take heed! Recycle yourself, shove the box in line behind you to take your place, call in sick... because once you are in the mail stream and on your way here there is no hope left for you!
(or whatever the hell I've wasted my money on.)