Getting yourself in the mail

Alana Profit

Most days I think I’m a run-of-the-mill high schooler: I get up at a time I feel is entirely too early, do homework the period before it’s due, stuff my face in 20 minutes at lunch, go to track practice, go home to eat dinner, sleep, and repeat. But just recently my perception of myself as a less than spectacular high schooler drastically changed.

One average Saturday a couple of weeks ago I got a text from a friend saying that he got me in the mail. What? For one, I was 100 percent positive I was not in his mailbox at any point in the day, or my life, for that matter. For two, I highly doubt that being in a mailbox is physically possible, that is, unless you’re an 11 year old Chinese gymnast. He then verified it for me via picture message, and there I was, smiling back up at myself.

Shocked at the discovery, I brushed it off as a mere figment of my imagination, but over the next week at school I had countless people come up to me and tell me that I was in their mailboxes too.

The location patterns didn’t even make sense: how could I be in Shakopee, Minneapolis, Edina, and Eden Prairie at the same time? I vaguely wondered if I was capable of such Jack Frost-esque feats in NREM sleep…

Later I came to find out that all these people were telling me the truth. There are thousands of little 4X6 size doppelgangers of mine running around the Metro area and appearing in people’s mailboxes. I guess they inherited some of my ninja skills.

Now I see myself as a girl with superpowers, to be used only for good, which the little guys are merely a manifestation of, since they’ve only just recently matured within the last two years: the power of persuasion.

I have yet to get myself in the mail, but I think that would violate some space-time continuum law or other. I’m content to let my comrades in arms continue their admirable mission to Raise the Red without my interference; I trust that they’ll do well.