When walking the dog today, I decided to take an alternate route. One which, once doggie had done her business, did not have a trash receptacle in plain sight. This is typical, as I can often be seen wandered downtown with a baggie of dog poo in hand. It's just one of the joys of doggie-parenthood. I like to believe it deters weirdos from approaching me (not to mention anyone else).
This evening as we strolled, I started thinking about what needed to be done tonight, this week, and the next couple of weeks with one eye on the lookout for a trash can. A couple of blocks later, I spotted a receptacle in the distance. I went back to my mental list trying to decide whether to vacuum or fold laundry, check e-mail or eat dinner first. Decisions, decisions.
As I went to dispose of the special package, I stopped as if a hypnotist had snapped his fingers. Said receptacle was not in fact a trash can, but a mailbox.
Ten years of bad karma for crappifying pounds of public mail sitting in a hot, metal box: Successfully avoided.