It all started when Erin in Toronto sent her uncle a Christmas card. Actually, scratch that — it all started three years ago, at Erin’s wedding, the last time Erin actually saw her uncle in person.

Before the wedding, Erin explains, “Linda (my uncle’s girlfriend) RSVP’d that she’d attend, and then then didn’t bother to show up, meaning we had to pay for her meal anyway.” (Not that she’s bitter about that or anything!) “Since then,” Erin says, “I assumed they had broken up and have addressed the annual Christmas card to just my uncle and cousin.”

Now, while that might sound a bit hasty (or even, dare I say…passive-aggressive),  in Erin’s defense, the Christmas cards she received were only signed by her uncle and cousin — this year’s included. And yet, in what appears to be a last-minute back-of-the-envelope calculation, “Linda chose this year to remind me that she was still kicking around,” Erin says.

On the flip side of things, receiving mail addressed to one’s ex can be a disturbing experience as well. I’d say this intercepted message speaks for itself.

related: There are NO pre-paid legal executives (OR FEMALES!) living here!

Spotted by Kelly at gas station somewhere between Los Angeles and Monterey, California: a prime example of why notewriters (and corporations) cannot live on spell-check alone.

related: Stupid is as stuiped does

For the folks who found yesterday’s “do not come in” post a bit too “kids say the darndest things” precious, I figured I’d better even things out with a look at what happens when those neglected jealous siblings grow up…and get armed.

Exhibit A, spotted by Heather at a gas station in Gastonia, North Carolina

Exhibit B, which Steve found pinned to a tree in Athens, Ohio (where, while visiting friends, he stumbled upon the property of the local necrophiliac farmer)

And lastly, Exhibit C, spotted by Dex outside a “fairly dilapidated” house in Raleigh, North Carolina

related: The right to bear fruit

I think it’s actually pretty amazing how Kathy’s six-year-old daughter — feeling a wee bit neglected now that there’s a baby brother on the scene — has managed to capture the love/hate essence of the “I’m no longer an only child” crisis in words, however adorably misspelled. (As the oldest of four kids myself, my mother will never let me forget that my method of expressing those feelings — temper tantrums — was considerably less cute.)

related: Sibling rivalry, the rift that keeps on giving

extra credit: “Does Birth Order Matter?” [nytimes.com]

If I had to choose the one thing I hate most about Facebook, I think it would have to be how it’s normalized the narcissistic idea that the day you were born (and increasingly the entire week/month leading up to it) is somehow an annual event of earth-shattering importance…and (part two), how it has turned into a venue for people who share that idea to host their own pity parties, like so:

Of course, some of those people prefer the prematurely pissy approach — this message, for example, was apparently posted at 10:50 the day before her birthday:

But on Facebook, the “proactively setting the bar low” approach (as opposed to proactively setting the bar high) might yield better results…that is, if your friends still pity you enough to put with your juvenile bullshit.

related: “I received 25 bday wishes out of 473 Facebook friends.”