"I" received a mysterious envelope from The Washington Post yesterday. But before I go on, I'd like to share some interesting facts about my favorite pronoun, "I".
1. "I" is a multisymmetrical beast.
2. "I" is a homonym of sight and the cry of sailors.
3. Often, its meaning is clear and unequivocal.
4. Except when "I" get cool envelopes from The Washington Post that I want to open.
5. In those cases, who am I to judge who "I" should be? "I" could be me. "I" could be you. Or "I" could be Dr. Michelle A. Rivera, the person's name on this envelope, an envelope with "FIRST CLASS MAIL" on it and definitely has something cool in it oh god I want to open it now.
So, if you want to be technical, I am not Dr. Michelle A. Rivera. Neither are my roommates, Dan and Matt. I asked. Nor is any former roommate a doctor, much less Dr. Michelle A. Rivera, who, for all we know, is Doctor of Baby Eating.
And the envelope has my address on it, so it's not like I can put it back through the mail slot. (Although returning your mail and writing "WRONG!" on the letters would be a fun way to torture your mail carrier.)
Okay, we all know where this is going. I teared opened the envelope, having fantasized for hours about what treasure laid inside. Could it be it a prize from The Style Invitational? A letter from Gene Weingarten? Maybe an application for an unadvertised writing position. Or a survey, deliver to only twelve readers, asking for our opinion about the comics page.
And the envelope contained...a copy of The Washington Post magazine. Oh. That's nice.
Here's my question for you. Did I commit mail fraud? The letter wasn't addressed to me, or a previous occupant of the house, but it had the house's address. I have no moral qualms (of course!), but it's an interesting legal question.
A question "I" should find the answer to.
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