So we meet again, Automated Postal Center. I see you were intimidated by my mad MacGyver skills that time you tried to eat my debit card, and so you have dreamed up new and horrid trials for me to overcome, new ways to thwart me.
And you have almost succeeded.
At midnight last night, I felt supremely confident entering your domain. My debit-card dropping daughter was safe at home. There were no lines out the door, which was why I had waited until such an ungodly hour to go to the post office. I had only two packages to send, and both were domestic. Two ARCs, no larger than a trade-sized book.
I used you, APC, oh yes. I used you like the bitch you are. I got my postage, slapped it on.
And that is when you bitch-slapped me.
Because, apparently, I can no longer send any package after regular postal hours. The blue bin next to you–I usually take such pleasure opening its steel maw–was locked. A new sign was up that said everything over 13 oz had to be brought to the counter. No sending trade-sized books. No sending anything except envelopes–even those official ExpressMail boxes that the postal employees have so nicely put out for our use have nowhere to go.
So, you’ve got me, APC. I’ll have to brave the lines at the post office, after all.
…but it does beg the question: what use are you, then? You’re like an ATM without money. If I need a stamp for an envelope, I’ll just use the stamp vending machine. So, pfft on you.