Can You Handle Me When I Ship Myself to You?

They say they want my products
They check off the boxes
They type in their credit card numbers
But I know what they really desire
Is a little piece of me, a sliver of the brain capable of solving their life’s little problems

They want me, they get me
I am for the people

Click “Ship Tyler” and I will pack myself up
I have a trusted colleague come over to assist with the logistics
Of wrapping me in a box, or stuffing me in an envelope if we’re trying to be lean
Did you know that the post office used to impose a shipping limit at 70 pounds?
I had had a conversation with one of their directors about this travesty
“Look sir, reasonably, I can’t cut my weight to 70 lbs, no way no how”
He listened and he liked me
Then I was able to ship myself

But the postage costs are exorbitant
I only go if the customer pays premium
Lonely ex-wives
Curious teenagers with their parents’ credit cards
Enterprising new age businesses

You know I get claustrophobic
My colleague chloroforms me before slipping me into the box or the lope
He likes doing this part because I treat him like shit
Anyway, I don’t like it because it’s hard to come back to consciousness when I arrive at the door
These customers are excited until I ungraciously unravel out like some sort of drunken sock
They poke me with a stick
My colleague adds a set of instructions to “blow an airhorn” in my ear if I should stay motionless for too long
I had one person who wanted a refund
She immediately shipped me back, but not before planting a tender little kiss on my forehead for my bon voyage
I fell in love with her the moment she planted that kiss and I went to ask her her name
But she’d already licked the seal and airtaught me a lesson in returning lost love

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