Apr 5, 2011


I never know if the mail I receive is really for me. Sure, some of it is signed,
"love, Mom" and some of it personally addresses me with salutations like "Hey Pete"
or "Dear Peter" or, even, "For my beloved, Peter" but mostly it's all
pretty ambiguous. The mail carrier won't look me in the face and when
I call out to her, in a good natured way, like, say, "Excuse me, Ms. I think you
dropped an envelope," she never responds with anything but a purple glare.
I should say too that that shade of purple is not meant for a face. What
confuses me most are the addresses which rarely actually indicate the street I live on.
I live on Grant Street, but most of my mail says stuff like "Grum Street" and
"Grime Stipe" and "Gutter Humper." The area code is rarely correct and many
of the actual packages I receive are clearly meant for others because they'll say things
like "Dear Margery" and "Hello Sven" and "Good Evening Mrs Turnbuckle."
Still, this stuff winds up in my hands and I'm left to consider the possibility that
these are for me, that I might be Sven and live on Grum Street. But, here's the thing,
I know I'm not Mrs. Turnbuckle and, even if I was, I'd hate myself big time. So, all day,
everyday, all I do is think about my options.