Right before spring break last year, I’d ordered some bootleg Ray Bans, as one does. I was not risking my real ones on some hepatitis-riddled beach. Anyway, the delivery time on these bad boys was 7-40 days, so I wasn’t holding my breath waiting for them. The website I got them from was based out of China, so my expectations were already low.
A few weeks after I ordered them, I got an email from the main post office of my university. A post office attendant named Tina, informed me that I had a “mystery package” waiting for me. Except not. It was addressed to someone that had my first name, but no last name or no mail stop information was listed. I thought this was odd since I always ordered things straight to my sorority house, and never experienced any problems. But I thought, whatever, this isn’t the first time China had fucked something up. Then Tina asked if I was expecting anything from India that was a health product. This is the point where I was a little sketched out. I told her the truth, that I was waiting for some ghetto shades to come in, and it didn’t really sound like the same thing to me. Tina sent the package to me anyway, saying I can just send it back if it wasn’t mine.
It wasn’t mine.
The next morning, my sunglasses arrived, but, since I’m nosy, and a little bit dangerous, I opened my mystery package. Inside was a recent edition of the Hindustan Times wrapped around a plastic baggie full of drugs. Pills on pills of…something. There was no letter, no prescription, and no information whatsoever. I Googled the markings on the pills to learn that they were a knockoff version of Xanax made in Pakistan.
For a brief moment, I thought what my life as a drug lord could be like. I’d have expensive cars. Men in white suits with pointy collars, gold chains, and too much chest hair on each arm. I’d have a whole entourage of muscle at the ready to do my bidding. Math teacher wants to give me a bad grade? Stick one of my goons on her. Some bitch decides to look in the direction of a guy I’ve had a crush on, but never actually talked to? I’d show her who was boss. I’d stop drinking water. Champagne only. And I’d live in a white mansion overlooking some body of water — not sure which one, but I know it’d look tropical AF.
I decided that a career in crime probably wouldn’t bode well for my dreams of marrying a Kennedy, so I opted out. I drove right back down to the post office, said no to drugs. Return to sender.
Some people might be wondering why I didn’t decide to keep them, or try at least one. But I couldn’t get over the potential headline: “Sorority Girl Dies After Taking Miscellaneous Pakistani Drugs, Is Idiot, No One Feels Bad,” and thought better of it. Besides, they were knockoffs anyway. And everyone knows I don’t do knockoffs, unless they’re Ray Bans for spring break..