Frequently, I receive mail not intended for me. When I first moved into my second apartment in Chicago, I became the recipient of several glossy male underwear catalogs. Upon delivery, I would conceal these items between direct mailers and electricity bills and expedite them to the recycling bin, where they would hide amid empty yogurt and takeaway containers until it was time for them to be shredded and tossed in a dumpster. It's not that I don't appreciate a good man relaxing in underwear—but intense male
models posing in tight boxer briefs make me feel uncomfortable and insulted. The last time I saw an Abercrombie & Fitch shopping bag, I screamed.
Recently, I've stopped receiving
Boxers, Briefs, and Sass!, but did acquire a
Star magazine that belongs to someone named James. It is a delivery error that will be corrected immediately, right after I read about a new appetite suppressant mouth spray tested and developed by, respectively, European women and "scientists who want to know the latest news." (You only have to ingest three sprays via "your mouth" five times a day, and "it
even tastes good!") I'm excited about this radical new diet drug, as it's time someone noticed that solid food on a plate should only exist in still life paintings. For example:
Delicious!
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