Ah, the Kenyon Post Office. A place of love, loss, and lust. The place you go only when you think your eccentric-yet-wealthy aunt has sent you money, or to face the disappointment of knowing that the United States Postal Service will soon be obsolete due to the rapid technological advancements of modern society. But mostly it’s a place where you go to think: who the frick shares my P.O. Box, dude?
- The Imposter. This person gets so little mail that you wonder if they even go to Kenyon, or if they’re simply a figment of your imagination.
- The Correspondent. As opposed to the Imposter, they get a shit ton of letters no matter what time of year it is, making you wonder if they’re either a) secretly a spy for the Commies or b) trying to make you feel inferior and unloved on purpose.
- The Pizza Fanatic. Otherwise known as the Dominhoe, Slut for the Hut, or Little Caesar’s Appeaser, this person leaves so many goddamn laminated pizza coupons in your shared mailbox that you just know they must really be going through it.
- The Tax Evader. Does your postbox pal have a stray W2 form that they’ve just left there for the past couple of years? Is there a ~hot and dangerous, à la We R Who We R~ IRS Special Agent constantly stationed directly outside of your mailbox? Turn that son of a bitch in to the sheriff.
- A literal rat who’s made your P.O. box his burrow. Free real estate, bitch!