Illustration by Bob Aul To the well-dressed 60ish blonde at the Warner Avenue Post Office in Huntington Beach: It's a Wednesday morning, 7:15, and you've just dropped off your mail. You get back into your new silver F150 pickup truck. I notice because I'm waiting for you to back out of your parking spot before I can leave. Your truck is in reverse, but it isn't moving. I can't believe what I am seeing: you dump your ashtray into the parking lot, then toss from your window lipstick-covered tissues you've obviously used to dab your mouth. A trash receptacle is less than 15 feet away—right next to the mailbox where you were not 30 seconds ago. You pull away, running over your garbage with your own truck. You hold your lit cigarette high as you drive away. You filthy, wretched, nasty, fucking bitch. I love this city, and it makes me sick to know that people like you treat it as their toilet. Trash like you isn't welcome here. Stay away from our city. I have your license plate, and I will take great pleasure in using your truck as my toilet if I ever see you again.
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