It’s No Good, reports Depeche Mode

I am still not allowed to live in my house. This displeases me.

Yesterday I was debating weeping or going to the post office, case and my sister helpfully suggested that I go to the post office and weep there. This turned out to be just the ticket. Thanks, ethicist! Everyone else was already weeping, even the employees. And after filling out a few forms and showing ID and a little ankle, I am allowed to pick up mail today.

Is it possible to get PTSD from sheer inconvenience?

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