Dear Junk Mail,
It’s not so much that I hate you. It’s just that…you have a shocking amount of potential, and you waste it.
It’s just one of those things– you do not ruin my day. At most, you make me feel vaguely guilty as you go directly from my mailbox to my recycling pile (conveniently located next to the front door). And sometimes financially guilty, because for some reason my junk mail consists solely of coupons? What is that?
Where are the magazines and catalogs for me to look through, that will make me feel virtuous because I will not order anything? (I don’t think…hopefully…doesn’t matter, I don’t get them anyway. Maybe it is for the best.)
But instead of junk mail, you could be such amazing things! Instead of just not ruining my day, you could make it! Come on, mail, make me day. Be a postcard from an old friend. You could tell me that I was chosen by something I didn’t apply for! Or that I won a contest I didn’t enter!
Even when you’re something I’ve been waiting for– The New Yorker— which is supposed to make me feel up-to-date and stimulated and give me an example of good writing and a magazine-length read and stuff stuff stuff. Then it arrives…and I realize I have to read it…and maybe…perhaps…just occasionally…I would rather it was US Weekly.
Not Cosmopolitan. I hate even seeing the headlines while in line at the grocery store: “what sex feels like for men”? Seriously? “How to make him want you“? If he doesn’t want you, girl, find someone who does. Or brush your teeth, but that’s about all there is to say on the subject. And no, just in case any of you were wondering, you cannot have sex on a public beach under a sarong and not have anyone notice. I am not speaking from experience. I am speaking from common sense. It’s a public beach, and it’s a sarong, and it’s sex. If you don’t care if you get caught, that’s an entirely different issue.
The New Yorker, on the other hand, instead of making me feel smart, makes me feel tired and overwhelmed.
So, mail, you make me feel environmentally guilty, financially guilty, and intellectually guilty. Vaguely. You still do not even ruin my day.
I would rather, however, if you contained something useful, like…a Comcast bill saying my account has been unexpectedly credited! Or a delivery of cream so I don’t have to go to the grocery store. Or some stickers. I like stickers. Or some cold, hard cash, which really should be described as soft, warm cash, because that’s how it would make me feel.
And that would improve my day. Vastly. Out of proportion to how you affect my day now. Kind of like how not having a blister doesn’t make your foot feel good but having a blister is like a fire on your foot and you can’t think about anything else. Or…like I often don’t notice when I don’t have a cupcake, but man a cupcake in the middle of the afternoon makes me all smiles.
Luckily, I often eat cupcakes. Unfortunately, I never get anything but junk mail.