dumbass fuckface retard raven hating on shit again like an old man: MY EMPTY PO BOX

So I have to re-up my stupid PO Box, which is lame, because they moved. The old post office was downtown (meaning where the 3 blocks of town are) by the playground near the river so I could take the kids to the park, and walk up and check my po box with some little 1952 looking ass box with a glass window and shit that the key hardly ever worked in, and there were secret "asbestos warning" symbols going into certain parts of the little post office, but it was tight. Some serious ass small town bullshit and whenever we had a baby the post office lady would let us weigh her on the electronic scale and she knew she didn't have to ask me what I was mailing media class because I knew the rules. Plus, when my zine was bumping, they kinda knew any wackass weird boxes they got with odd labelling was probably mine so they'd ask, and I'd always say yes. Usually it was for me though.
Well they moved their shit uptown to the re-stuccod strip mall, and now it's sterile and white and I've got a metal door to look at and open and see there's nothing in the fucker. Plus, it's bigger so they cost me more. Plus, they changed my fucking number too because they don't even go up to my old number no more. It sucks going to the post office now, next door to the liquor store and the Federated Auto Parts, drink machines in effect like mad, and nothing fucking there.
But I am going to pay my bullshit, mostly because I think the internet and blog faggotry is overrated. Plus none of these other faggots other than Mike even want to write shit for the EWA anymore, always popping in to be like, "YO! I'm gonna write some shit this weekend, school and shit..." and never showing back up to write shit. And I don't care enough about any of that crap. The internet seems boring. Downloading naked pics of chicks is not quite as awesome as chicks sending you naked Polaroids of them sitting on their couch, cooch hairs all over the cushions. Those were the good ole days.
Well anyways, I'm scaling back my internetted nonsense because I started a new zine called LOVE LETTER TO MYSELF. I'm getting off this fucker to crack open a 6-pack of Yuengling I had bought to drink with a crazy old dude who lives on the side of a mountain nearby because he had left his glasses at my mom's house, but his gate was all padlocked up like an air force base, and his phone was busy all day long. So I have the whole 6-pack to myself. I will open it and finish this first issue. I won't hyped it here (hah, I probably will next time too, though it won't register with you robots and your keyboard life force tentacle programming hardwiring) all the time and shit, but here's the deal on acquiring it if you would like.
RAVEN MACK PO BOX 270 SCOTTSVILLE, VA 24590 that is the address, and you mail me (if you are an American fucker) three stamps, and one address other than your own. It will only take one stamp to mail, so I'll use one for someone else I know to send it to, one for you, and might send that third one to your second address you give me, or might not. I might mail my Best Buy bill with it. Hard to say. If you are foreign fucker, you figure out your foreign bullshit, and send me 3 pieces of appropriate foriegn mail things, but also go ahead and send me two other addresses, because most likely I don't know foreign fuckers from your land. Eventually, once these are like the greatest kook retard thing ever, and it eventually gets back to the internet how awesome they are, I'll sell back issues for like $10 each plus the three stamps, so you best get the fuck in now.
Also, my post office box is a wacky thing. It loves treasure and kookiness, and usually it forces me to reward by sending wacky shit back. But not always. Also, if you are some random internet dude who I owe something to for some sort of dorkery welching, do not email me about it. I have a hard time connecting internet with real life. Also, I do not care if you think I should mail you one because of some shit you did for me at some point or some money you gave me. This is the internet, and no one here is real. (If you are that dude in Indiana, this doesn't mean you; I'm gonna mail you a bunch of shit as soon as the 8-ball doesn't block my view of paychecks.)