Last night an interesting dream came.
I was a postal worker delivering mail in a snowy area. While I made my rounds putting letters into mailboxes a postal service snow plow was supposed to have come by and cleared the road. (There's no such thing as a postal service snow plow by the way, that's a Dept. of Transportation issue.) When I got back to my truck it was half-buried by the piled snow pushed off the main street. Someone comes out onto their porch and watches me digging it out.
Hahaha isn't that supposed to be someone else's job?
I look up and reply, "Yeah, but when you work at the post office long enough the code you follow becomes: 'Fuck it.' Because the mail, it nevers stops coming. Day after day letters pour in and you have to send it out. No matter how fast you work it's always coming in. Bags and bags of it. Insanity is an inevitability. Hence the phrase "going postal". It's the boxes that are the worst. I hate boxes."
At which point the man points out that the mail car is shaped like a box.