The amount of mail I receive has skyrocketed in the past six months. I credit this largely to the fact that I made a donation to the ASPCA, a charitable act that was inspired more by the promise of a free window sticker (which declares how many pets are in the household in case of an emergency) than by pure generosity. It would seem that my cat reported my dishonorable motives to the ASPCA, which prompted them to sell my name to every money-hungry organization in the solar system.
Thus, my mailbox is flooded with heart-wrenching pleas from orphaned humans, orphaned kittens, orphaned kittens in the care of orphaned humans, and so on and so forth. (To be fair, each cluster of orphan-related mail is punctuated by three Victoria's Secret catalogues.)
But the insanity reached new heights shortly after my 25th birthday in September, when I started finding Denny's-scented envelopes from AARP hidden among the tear-stained telegraphs from homeless pandas. "Welcome to AARP!" the letters exclaimed. "Rejoice with us that you aren't yet dead and are, in fact, merely on the verge of old age and loneliness!"
Let me repeat: I turned 25 years old this year. That is exactly half the age required by AARP for membership privileges. Also, a second temporary AARP card had been included in the envelope for my spouse. I am not married. I am not engaged. I don't even have plans to talk to an eligible bachelor today, tomorrow, or any time in 2011. (I might as well give love a shot in 2012, since it's better to be snogging than not snogging as the world comes to an end.)
Just last week, I received a second piece of communication from AARP, this one just as gleefully misguided as the first (although it seems that I have divorced my imaginary spouse). Irked, I wrote a complaint to the first email address I could find. I have yet to receive a response, so I can only assume that the CEO of AARP is arranging for a nursing home to record a musical apology to post to YouTube for me.
In the meantime, someone seems to have picked up on my young lady vibes (bow-chicka-wow-wow) and has signed me up for Teen Vogue. I've already fulfilled my vapid magazine subscription allotment for my lifetime (high-five, Seventeen), so I feel compelled to publicly communicate that to my Snail Mail Representatives. (I did appreciate the interview with Glee stars, Cory and Lea, though.)
In conclusion, I'd appreciate an immediate end to all mailings intended for old people, teenagers, and internet-challenged young adults (this is 2010; stop it with the paper catalogues). Instead, I'd like to see my mailbox stuffed with more chocolate, more money, and more kittens. And before the end of the world, please send Elijah Wood.