It has come to my attention that someone has put me on a list for junk mail. It occurs to me that it's the only kind of mail I receive. People tell me that they write me letters, but they must get lost in the shuffle. All I seem to get is junk mail, and I wonder how many other people are in this predicament. Recently, I've decided to take these endless bushels of lemons and try to make lemonade.
"Do you want to be a better you?" One such letter asked me intrusively.
"No thanks!" I answer.
"Quit smoking in seven days!" another announces.
"Thanks, but I don't smoke," I say as I whip it into the trash. For a while, I chuck the letters in the trash like the cards-in-the-hat trick. Junk mail seems to come at me from everywhere. I get it from every state. Does it come to me from every company, too?
It seems to be a tremendous waste of paper: Piles of coupons from stores I've never entered stuff the inside of my mailbox.
I'm amused by the variations on my name I receive. Though I should be getting mail for "Ms./Miss Laurel Caswell," I've gotten these in the past month as well: Mrs. Laura Carson, Mr. Lauren Casewell, Mrs. Laurell Cosgrove, and (my favorite) Laurel C. Aswell. So I've been collecting junk mail not just for myself, but also for about six different people that I think are meant for me. (I've asked around the neighborhood and discovered no Cosgroves, Casewells, or Aswells.)
Now, with the help of my sister, I've decided to put all of this colorful, plentiful, and meaningless paper to good use.