Going postal! I love you so hard, snail mail

I like fruit baskets because it gives you the ability to mail someone a piece of fruit without appearing insane. Like, if someone just mailed you an apple you’d be like, ‘huh? What the hell is this?’ But if it’s in a fruit basket you’re like, ‘this is nice!’ – Demitri Martin

I love mail. All types. Food, packages, packages filled with food, cards, letters, raw mail. You name it, I want it on my front porch.

What is raw mail, you ask? It’s something you decide to send to a friend (or enemy) sans packaging…like a giant Barbie head or plastic horse. I once received the latter covered in stamps with no return address. If you paste enough postage on whatever, USPS is oblidged to deliver it.

This isn’t to say I’m good at reciprocating snail-mail love.

My best friend sends me postcards, letters, hand-made gnomes – and she doesn’t get a damn thing in return. In fact, I avoid the post office at all costs because I once got into a verbal altercation with a woman who works at the Wicker Park station. If you frequent that hellhole, you know EXACTLY who I am talking about.

Sometimes mail is misdelivered to my address.

Once, I received a package for my neighbor’s package. I obviously didn’t take the time to look at the “addressee” line and ripped that sucker open only to find hundreds of “male enhancement ” pills. What to do? I took the high-road and re-taped the box closed, sent an email to my neighbor accusing him of being a terrorist given the state of the package, and threw it onto his doorstep.

Surprise package! Or Surpise! Package.

Or I assume mail is misdelivered to my address.

Back in college, I came home to a bouquet of paper flowers in our mailbox. I presumed  some sensitive, pony tail sporting lover boy left them for my roommate. “Why does Katie gets paper flowers from boys and all I get is a drunk dude throwing snowballs at my window.”

Turns out the flowers were from the drunk boy who threw the snow…and now shovels our sidewalk as one of his husbandly duties.

Most recently, a schmancy foodie magazine was errantly delivered to our address. A good neighbor would return it to its rightful owner faster than you can roast a beast. An OK neighbor would snap a few pics of intriguing recipes and then drop off the mag with its rightful owner.

I am neither a good nor OK neighbor. I opted for choice #3: take said magazine to the grocery store, in following the recipe, accidently splatter x, y and z ingredients all over the page, and and relish a pretty delicious dinner.

I figure the only way to redeem myself is to include an ANONYMOUS note highlighting the awesomeness of the recipe along with a few suggestions and throw the magazine onto a neighboring porch under the cover of night.

Let’s hope USPS can keep mail rates somewhat reasonable so I can keep on keepin’ it classy, folks.

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