The tale of an Amazon.com-induced mental breakdown.

You know when you're waiting for a phone call, or an email, or something to arrive at the door, and it's the highlight of your day so you avoid doing anything remotely responsible for fear of missing it's exact arrival?

I hate that.

I'm waiting here.  Feverishly typing away at the computer, at the kitchen table, coffee cup nearby, box o' generic Honey Bunches of Oats still out, waiting, waiting, waiting, not wanting to sneeze for fear of not being readily available.  Because there's nothing worse than screaming out of the shower, soapy hair, to answer the door to a scared, lesbian UPS driver who doesn't know whether you're offering her your drippingly wet body of Burt's Bees bath gel or just behind the times with your Halloween costume and doing a poor imitation of Risky Business.

You don't feel like peeing because those 25 seconds could be used to guard against the door like an Imperial Pug on the Death Star.

Washing your hands would be overrated because you just don't want to take those extra 7 seconds to disinfect yourself before rattling the Fed Ex driver like he's Hulk Hogan circa 1988 (Happy Birthday Middle Sister then though!)

Don't get too excited to make your second breakfast because you may get interrupted, then the eggs will burn, and you can't just eat bacon alone....you'd have to try and salvage them because you hate wasting food, or will cry in a fit on the kitchen floor because all you wanted was a sensible breakfast of protein and high amounts of sodium.

Since when did life get reduced to waiting?  Oh ya, the moment that you told Mr. Wookie that the Navy life didn't scare you.  Oh silly, young Ging.  If only there were booklets on following the Navy.  Like those Belly Laughs books by Jenny McCarthy, but only geared toward getting your anus and sanity ripped apart, and not your...well...you know.  Shudder.

So hurry up.  Get here.  I want you.  Stop making me wait.  Redheads aren't good with those demands.