A letter in your writing doesn't mean you're not dead

I wrote a letter last night. My best friend of old and I used to write each other letters all the time despite the fact that I practically lived in her house. It's the thrill of getting mail that isn't junk. I wrote a letter to my pregnant cousin but I'll never send it. She's a complete stranger. It's only blood that links us across the ocean and I know nothing about her other than she's pretty and silly and is going to have a baby at eighteen. But I wrote it anyway and tucked it inside an envelope before dropping it into my bin.

We should start a letter writing revolution. Whenever someone I knew was feeling really down I'd stuff an envelope full of things I had lying around and note down any thoughts I had about them floating around. But email killed the thrill of scribbling down all the things that sound stupid when I open my mouth. I need something tangible. Everything I write on this laptop I need to clean is fleeting. I click submit or send or publish and it's gone. You can read it unless I delete it but I forget what's here and if you bring it up there's a panic before I realise it's just overlap from my diary you're quoting, not it itself.

But these days there's no point in writing letters. I don't know most people's addresses and with the internet and mobile phones I can tell you what I'm thinking faster.

Plus the post office stole my package and I'm never getting my rock o'clock tshirt which sucks and I hiss at the postie now.

Bastards.