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Wednesday, April 24, 2024
The independent student publication of The University at Buffalo, since 1950

Please Deliver My Mail

I live on a road that doesn't exist. Oak Court, the street sign reads. But there's no street, no pavement, just grass and a bench.

Confused? So is the Amherst Post Office. At least they deliver some of my mail. The rest, "Return to Sender."

The laundry list of missing items includes an ATM card, a letter from the vice-president of EE Controls (my employer), and a box of cookies from my grandmother.

The cookie thing makes me cringe. The thought of my grandparents waking to their care-package returned beaten, bruised and expired, with "no such address" repeatedly stamped across it, at their doorstep is not pretty.

This package was my grandparents' first attempt at sending me anything aside from a Christmas or birthday card with twenty bucks slapped in the middle.

I wish the mailmen had just eaten the freaking cookies. It would have been kinder than beating and returning them.

The letter from my boss must be important; otherwise he would have just e-mailed me. I'm probably fired.

When I lost my ATM card I ordered a new one. They said that I would have it in five to seven days. That was two weeks ago. I spent the last dollar in my wallet on a Nestea yesterday. Today I traded the car-floor jackpot for a Frappachino.

Of course, the bills arrive unrestrained. I bet the mailman acknowledges my pseudo-street when carrying bills because he takes great pleasure in delivering penalties. Maybe he sings and laughs while sliding that Mastercard bill into my box because he saw my bank statement. I even owe money on my savings account.

The cookies and the Verizon bill were addressed identically, according to Grandpa. So I called the post office and asked why they only deliver half my mail. The postmaster told me to bring him the box (that they didn't deliver) so he can check the label for mistakes.

My eccentric father claims he doesn't want an address. My mother owns his house and cars, even though he pays for them.

He says, "Hey man, I'm gonna be invisible." He thinks that if he doesn't own anything the lawyers will be unable to find him to summon him to court, again.

In reality the house is now my mother's because otherwise he would have lost it in the last suit.

Unlike him, I would appreciate a real address. Thanks.



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