Going Postal. The public schools system has gained little in the way of explaining this widespread phenomena. Here's what Webster's had to offer. Going: n. The act of moving, departure. Postal: Of or pertaining to the mail service. As you can see, as the rest of the world is oblivious to the threat of more and more young citizens "Going Postal", we all have culminated to prove one point. Horribly maiming the entity that aggravates us so will make the world a better place. The purpose of this essay is to illustrate the experience I would have if my postal dreams came true. The subject of my essay is one pop songstress, who goes by the name of Christina Aguilera. Sharpen all your knives, and read on.

Thou shalt not steal. Whether you believe in the Ten Commandments from God or not, this is one guideline we should abide by. Unfortunately for Ms. Aguilera, she thought her celebrity status would exempt her from the consequences of breaking this "law". Breaking this commandment assures her all eternity in hell. Or maybe not. Just to be certain she would acquire her just desserts, I intervened.

Young Ms. Aguilera was filming another asinine attempt at subverting the teenage popular culture through a certain music television pioneer. I happened to be in a studio adjoined to hers that day, and whether that was dumb luck or pure fate, I was never to find out.

A round pastry confection. Deep fried to a state of atery hardening bliss. Lightly powdered with sugar and presumably delicious.

A box of donuts lay on a table, explicitly marked "Studio 1A" as that was the studio my team was in. This was to avoid confusion with Studio 1B, Ms. Aguilera's studio. They had their own donuts, respectively marked. I had informed a friend to save me a powdered donut, as that type was my favorite. I arrived at the location of the donuts last, but thankfully my friend HAD indeed saved my donut. I decided after a quick pop in the loo, I would return to my baked good and consume it in all its fatty goodness. Upon exiting the facilities, I noticed the lid of the box containing my pastry was propped slightly open. Then I saw her. Christina Aguilera, not more than ten feet from the Studio 1A table. In her hands was the last donut from our box, and confectioners sugar rimmed her lips. I glanced over at the Studio 1B box of donuts and was taken aback by the fact that it was almost completely full. I considered some factors.

It was a possibility Ms. Aguilera simply took a donut from the wrong box. Though it was clearly marked, there was the chance that she was (as with many young pop stars) illiterate. Then I realized she was able to read from speeches carefully prepared by her manager to insure her goody-two-shoes persona at press conferences hosted by Nickelodeon, and decided she could, in fact, read.

Maybe, I had thought to myself before examining the box of donuts with her studio's mark, she had taken the donut from our box because her studio had oinked out on all of theirs. But now I knew that couldn't be a possibility, because her box was pristine. All of this pointed to one thing, and one thing only.

She was mocking me. As I stared at her, happily munching on MY donut, without a care in the world, I knew this was true. She was one of them. As I felt my paranoia grow, I looked around the room. Grips, extras, and even the director from her studio... they were all laughing. Laughing at ME, no less, laughing at my predicament... laughing like all the rest had laughed. Well, I thought to myself, I know how to remedy this situation. I shook my head, and looked around once more. They had all stopped laughing. All but her.

That was the incident I loathe so. Though people tell me it was but a dream, I heed only to my instincts. Also, I haven't been doing my exercises that keep the line between fantasy and reality clear and solid, so technically, I wouldn't be lying if I said I truly believed the aforementioned incident really occured. Now, however, I will detail how I achieved my revenge on Ms. Aguilera.

Still clutching my pastry, she paid me no mind. But I could hear her snickering... in my mind. I hear many things in my mind, my doctor calls it some kind of disassociative multiple personality disorder of one or another, but I call it my third eye. A sixth sense, if you will. The voices, the ones that were on my side in the ongoing struggle against them, commanded me to act. And I obeyed.

Non-chalantly, I approached the Studio 1B box of donuts. Whistling a soft diddy, I picked my way through them till I found what I wanted. Naturally, Ms. Aguilera was paying attention only to herself at the moment, and could see nothing of what I was doing. Finally, I extracted a medium sized, jelly filled donut. I sniffed it. Lemon filling, perfect. Then I proceeded with the plan.

Still whistling, I walked right up to the blonde haired "diva". Her back was turned, and I cleared my throat, attempting to gain her attention. She spun around, the remnants of my donut stuck to her lips in so many little crumbs. I spoke.

"You know, that was my donut that you just ate," I said, invoking a quizzical expression from Ms. Aguilera.

"I'm sorry," she started, "I didn't know it was yours."

My eyes flamed, my heart rate sped up. I was engulfed with rage, a rage so strong only a rampage would tame it. "Sorry? You're sorry?" I shifted my weight on my legs, and the hand with the jelly donut came into view, "Sorry didn't cut it with my late mother, and it sure as hell won't cut it with you!" I let out a shrill yell and raised my donut hand.

As my hand tightened around the baked good, a hot surge of adrenaline coursed through my system. This would be a battle to remember. I lunged toward my antagonist and with inhuman strenghth I squeezed the pastry. A spray of lemon filling flew from the donut's opening, right into Ms. Aguilera's eyes. She fell to the floor with her carefully manicured nails digging at her eyes. This was my chance, she was blinded and defenseless.

Hanging on a nearby wall was various tools for repairing broken sets, etc, and I grabbed a claw hammer. Weilding this powerful tool of death, I pounced on to Ms. Aguilera's rumpled figure. I started relentlessly hacking into her back, intent on continuing till I could hear her screams no more. But as the first blows struck, my hand was grabbed from behind. It was Ms. Aguilera's manager. Now there were two of them. Two I had to kill.

I struggled free from the overweight man's grip, and launched myself in the general direction of the wall where I had last been, to attain the claw hammer. This time I went for the fire extinguisher. After I had sufficiently blasted Ms. Aguilera and her manager (who had been, at the time, trying to get her to her feet so they could escape) I threw down the empty metal case, and closed in on them. Though I had no weapon now, I still advanced. A blinded young popstress, her cholesteral ridden manager, they would pay for my donut. They would pay in full.

This, the aforementioned account, would have been what had happened had I gotten my vengence on Ms. Aguilera. Another leap to overcome would be the fact that I was withdrawn from my psychotropic medication at the time I experienced this, making it seem to my doctor that it was a "mere hallucination". That said, you can only imagine how it feels to be denied my revenge.

Though Websters Dictionary makes an attempt at defining "Going Postal", it far from succeeds. Only the people who truly desire to go postal, and possibly the ones of us who have actually gone there ourselves, will be the ones who will educate future generations on the matter. With that, I bring a close to this essay.

--Agent *~MoonyBrigade~* (aka ColbyUCB)