The lock on my mailbox in the vestibule downstairs is a little wonky. Wonky, as in, nobody but me can get it open. My dad says this is something I should demand action on. Something like the back steps. My dad is probably right but to be honest, I don't really care that it is a pain in the ass to get the mailbox open. I can get it open, therefore it is fine. I do not mind the effort because I get so little paper mail, that usually it is something good and worth the effort. It is part of the "charm" of living in this old-ass building. However, sometimes I look through the little window and I am tricked into thinking there is something good in my mailbox, so I open it up. Inevitably, this is when it turns out to be a credit card application or some other asshole trying to get me to subscribe to something. I do not enjoy wasteful dicking around with my mailbox.
Fortunately banks, credit card companies and other assholes trying to get me to subscribe to things always include a postage paid envelope with their package. This is a war on stupid fucking mail and these people must pay for wasting my time. Unless you mail something back to them in their postage paid envelope, they don't pay. Hence, RBC will be receiving my outdated Avon sale flyer, some information regarding a poetry slam last month, the receipt from the pizza I ordered an hour ago and a helpful pamphlet of upcoming yoga classes in my neighbourhood.
I know it is small and petty but I don't care.