Writings in the Sand

Going Postal

I have a mail dysfunction. Mail is very important. Bills, for instance, need to be paid. But if I know I don't have the money, it seems silly to open them, so I just put them aside. Other letters may be important too, and so one day I must read them. Clearly, I must set them aside. And even if I read them, I need to keep the important ones - so I set them aside. Now my aside is so full, it hurts to move.

There are so many good and psychologically sound reasons for this dysfunction. My mother never threw any piece of mail away without first tearing it up into tiny pieces so that no one could find her trash and read her mail. She was particularly worried about her name and address being decipherable. She taught me to be paranoid about privacy and security long before the NSA scandal and internet phishing scams and the rest of modern day intrusions.

I don't even want to tell you what a problem the mail is for me. I cannot tell you how much backlogged mail I have that simply needs to be thrown away. But every pile of mail may contain an important letter or piece of documentation, and so every pile must be thoroughly investigated before it is chucked in the bin. It also needs to be shredded. Sometimes I pour the coffee grounds or some other unpleasant garbage on top of it to discourage anyone from piecing it together.

All of this would make sense if I were some international spy or highly-placed government official. The truth is that I can't think of anyone who would want to read my mail for any reason.

I was gifted a shredding machine recently. It would be a great idea, if only shredding paper were as much fun as it looks. It tends to get a bit samey after a while.

I doubt I am going to get better, and so I can only hope that whoever cleans out the place after I die will shred the piles of mail. I don't want anyone assuming my identity in my absence.