To the Total Perv Who Stole my Victoria’s Secret Delivery

Several weeks ago I chose to splurge on some new bras, which is a fairly expensive venture. Because I hate getting measured every time that I bra shop (I’m 26; I think my “development” is done and we’ve pretty much nailed down the size by now) and generally hate dealing with people when feeding vices, be it boobs or beer, I chose to shop online. This is preferred for me, because I get felt up less, and I also get to focus on the entertaining names of bra styles and colors, such as the Victoria’s Secret Very Sexy Wineberry Push-up Bra with Gel Curve or the trig-function sounding Ipex (PATENT PENDING). But after the 10-14 day waiting period, I was still sitting here in a bra with few to no “x’s” in its title. I looked up the tracking number, and it turns out that my seven-word bras were delivered well over 14 days ago, which means that someone in my building is traipsing around under-appreciating the “Padded Level:5 with Moderate Uplift” that is supposed to be in my possession.

What. The. Fuck. We all live in the same building. I don’t steal your Zappos shit. If some fruit flowers were delivered, I’d let them be and totally resist the urge to eat a portion of them, or worse, find a dog to pee on the little strawberry tulips. So why would you steal my bras? It’s a fucking recession; all I wanted was a little uplift (moderate, to be specific) and you’re going to seriously take my Victoria’s Secret bras? Really?

What kind of person are you? What’s the level of your Creep Factor? Are you sitting in your apartment, only feet from me right now, listening to me tapping on my keyboard while my Pandora Cold War Kids station plays as you feel the material of my over-priced bras between your fingers and lovingly abuse your member? Are you appreciating the Uplift: Moderate while we live close enough for you to know that I thumbs down most of the Red Hot Chili Peppers songs? Can you hear that I feel a little guilty for doing so, so I occasionally say, “Alright, THIS time” and let it slide? Do you light candles while you look at my Victoria’s Secret bras? Do you perhaps also share my affinity with lilac blossom fragrance oil because you can smell it wafting from my windows? Are you treating my one major purchase of the month with the respect deserved for an undergarment that has more modifiers than most of Dennis Miller ‘s play descriptions?

Or are you wearing my bra right now? Are you one of the women/transgenders in my building, who apparently has no respect for the amount of money that not just one, but two bras from Victoria’s Secret cost? What are you using to stuff them so that they fit? Socks? Pantyhose? Or have you put more thought and effort into it and perhaps taken note from “Now and Then” and created pudding-filled balloons, because I’ve seen all of you, and none of you can possibly fill out the bras that you now have in your closet, for free, that I have on my credit card, for a ridiculous price.

You guiltlessly stole my hard-earned breast support, which could probably be considered work attire, which means that you’ve also cost me money in tips during the last two weeks when I could have had considerably higher boobs. And you’ve done so shamelessly. Wow. I feel great knowing that we share an address, and possibly even a wall.

I was told I should steal an article of underwear from each person in my building to pay back the perpetrator, but this sounds very effort-filled and also pretty gross. A friend suggested that I take a daily dump in each tenant’s mailbox, but this is out of the picture and also undeservingly rude to 93% of the building’s residents. So to avoid any future issues, I will be posting pictures of Brett Butler, television’s Grace Under Fire, throughout our apartment building in various menacing poses with vaguely ominous phrases such as “I’m watching you, Unit #25.” Few things are more intimidating than a butchy blond in flannel about to rip Quentin, or you, a new asshole. And this is what I have to say to you, fucking ridiculous pervert who lives in my building and is now the proud owner of two ridiculously high-priced bras from Victoria’s Secret: GFY. Good For You. Your parents must be proud.