Oh, Luna. You sweet, thoughtful, unintentional douchebag, you.

You know, you and I have a lot in common.

Actually, that’s a lie.

For starters, you know how to clean a dishwasher. You like to eat Corn Flakes (Really, who enjoys Corn Flakes?). Also, you’re an INTJ. I’m an ISFP, or so I would like to think, had I finished the other 89 questions. The last time I took a quiz, I was supposed to find out what Arthurian character I was most like. Instead, I accidentally took a quiz on what character from Arthur I was most like.

Which explained a lot.

You know what else we don’t have in common?

Hope.

Because I’m sure you had that same hopeful feeling I had when you sent my package. The hopeful feeling I had when I signed up for Secret Santa and said to myself, “You’re already dubbed ‘that mailroom girl who has frequent seizures and runs.’ How can it get any worse?”

You know when you’re watching a horror movie and some character’s going into the attic? Like, no matter how many times you scream, “No! No! Don’t go in there! What are you dooooing?! No!”, the idiot still goes in there?

I’m that idiot.

So, flashback to last week. It’s Harry Potter trivia night at a local bar (I’m not even going to discuss the disgusting fact that you haven’t finished the movies, much less the books). I know I’m gonna kill it; the only thing I know better than Harry Potter is how to spell my first and last name (The middle’s up for debate. You think my parents would know how to spell it — they gave it to me). Anyways, I’m pumped, I’m excited, I know I’m gonna win. Besides, how many 21+ Harry Potter fans are free on a Tuesday night in Seattle?

Answer: A shitload.

Like, if people were Pumpkin Spice Lattes, that bar would have been ran into the ground by yoga pants and UGG boots. To put it simply, there were over 400 people in a bar that has a capacity of 100. After doing some quick mental math and realizing that there was no way in hell I would be able to outrun 399 other people in a fire, I left. And boy, was I bitter. So I asked myself, “What’s the best way to get back at this bar? Buying out a rival bar and entering my five best workers in a local flip cup competition? No,” I quickly realized, “I’m gonna buy craploads of drinks at another, rival bar.” So I did. I mulled over the idea of putting a damper on everyones night by calling the Fire Marshal to report both my bitterness and a possible fire hazard as I drank. And drank. And drank.

Now, Luna, this may be where you start asking yourself, “How does any of this have to do with me?” Well hold your horses, I’m getting there.

I’m what some call a “lightweight.” Two ciders and I’m gone. Well, that night, a night of bitterness, disappointment, and perturbation (Turns out, some people in Seattle have a borderline-creepy obsession with Harry Potter), I drank more than two drinks. I crashed and ended up missing my class the next morning.

I digress.

Flash forward a couple of days. I get an email from my school telling me I need to pick up a package. At first I was like, “Whatever. They probably just emailed the wrong person.” Then I get another email. And another. And another. On Sunday, I, being the wonderful person that I am, had to show my roommate how to pick up her mail (Don’t ask) and I just said, “Screw it. I’m gonna figure out why I keep receiving emails to pick up another person’s package.” So I marched down there, taught my roommate how to open her mailbox with a key, and asked the front desk whether or not I really had a package. Well, oh ho ho. Turns out I had not just one package, but two. Now here’s the part where I start acting like an idiot.

At this point, I knew four things: One, this package came from Nevada. Two, I didn’t know anyone in Nevada. Three, I somehow had two packages from Nevada. And four, I didn’t remember buying anything from anyone in Nevada.

So I argued. As fate would have it, the girl working at the desk was the same girl from criminal law that I embarrassed myself in front of last year. The argument went something like this:

Me: These aren’t mine.

Her: Well, they have your name on them.

Me: No, these can’t be mine.

Her: But they have your name and apartment number on them.

Me: But these are from Nevada. I don’t know anyone from Nevada!

Her: Dude, Madison, relax. They’re obviously yours.

Me: No, they’re not!

Her: Yes, they are!

Me: What if they aren’t?! What am I supposed to do?!

Her: Uhh, return them?

Me: And drive to Nevada?!!

Obviously, I lost. And humiliated myself in front of my classmate. Now, I know it’s technically not your fault that you live in Nevada and that you didn’t tell me you live Nevada, but I’m still gonna blame you ‘cause this all stems from your state.

But I’m not done yet.

No, because as fate would also have it, Sunday was one of the foggiest days all year. Like, can’t see three feet in front of you fog. Fate continues to be a bitch though, because guess who decided to make an appearance?! Laundry Boy! Do you know about Laundry Boy? Short version, if you don’t: Laundry Boy is the cute guy who lived on the same floor as me last year. Basically, I body slammed into him last year, dirtied up all his laundry and didn’t even apologize. Read my last Secret Santa for the low-down. So, foggy day, Laundry Boy and stupid, irrational me. No, I didn’t ruin his clean clothes this time, but I was complaining rather loudly to my roommate. I believe the exact phrase I used was, “God, I hope I didn’t buy anything when I was drunk. Last time this happened, I bought fake urine, a bowling ball and some underwear with Sophia from the Golden Girls on it.” Not only did laundry boy hear the entire thing, but he walked within my three feet radius and clearly now knows that I own both fake urine and a pair of underwear with Sophia on it.

How, how, hoooow is this possible??!!!! (See photo #1 for my reaction.)

Because the Earth hates me, that’s how.

So I got up to my room, literally spent five minutes debating whether or not to open the package and caved.

Photo #2 shows my hatred for said package. Picture #3 is for those of you that have been following my scissor journey. I recently got a sassy new pair from Target for $3. Skip pictures #4-7 unless you just want to see my face. Also my nose ring, which is the bane of my mother’s existence.

But duuuuuude… I’m not normally one for stuffed animals, but this Seahawks pillow is the shit. Seriously. My current pillows are flat and this one can only be described as having the softness that I imagine to be a cross between Russell Wilson’s hair, Marshawn Lynch’s personality and the softness of our O-Line. Also, it’s finals week and I may need something soft to cry into later when I take my Bio Final. I’ll link pictures if that happens.

But wait, there’s more! (See photo #10. Or skip it. Looking at it kinda makes me uncomfortable. You know what, don’t look at it.)

Picture #11 shows the small package that I probably should have opened first. Aren’t you supposed to open the smallest package first? Well, too late now.

You know, I had a lot of difficulty deciding how I should open this envelope. I didn’t want to cut anything important. Turns out they provided you with an actual flap to open things! (Picture #13, I think?) Picture #14 captures that wonderful moment where I struggle to tear open said flap of paper and realize I need to start going to the gym.

Awww, you got me an ornament! This will go wonderfully with the rest of my ornaments on my tree… which… I was supposed to decorate yesterday…. (See photo #18, where I realize this.) Number 19 is me reading your note. Yeah, definitely should have opened the smaller one first.

Anyways, Luna, yes, you did get me a bomb-ass Seahawk/sobbing pillow and an ornament for my still-to-be-decorated tree, and I appreciate that.

But, thanks to you, I am now known as ‘That mailroom girl who has frequent seizures and runs, hates the state of Nevada, and owns synthetic piss, a bowling ball and a pair underwear with Sophia on it.’ And for that, you are the sweetest, thoughtful, most unintentional douchebag ever.

Thanks for ruining my reputation even further and damaging any possible chance I would have with Laundry Boy,

Madison

PS: Nothing, I repeat, nothing, is better than Steven Hauschka (See picture #20).