Off. The. Chain.

“The only way to get mail is to send it,” my father told me when I complained as a child that I never received any mail. And so I started sending letters. Cousins, uncles, friends who lived only blocks away. I became quite the little letter writer and eventually, quite the letter receiver.

I kept my correspondence, believing that someone in the future would value these epistles, these notes from different friends and relatives around the country feeding me such sweet praise in print. I kept them with my journals, a different record of my childhood insanity, assuming that some little girl in the future would find these brilliant pieces of history in a dusty attic and have a wonderful picture of what it meant to grow up in the 1990s.

I still enjoy that feeling, of opening a crisp envelope that found its way across the country or the world, the paper unfolding itself to tell me stories, secrets, sweet nothings. Each letter is a tiny time capsule, holding fast to its expired news, a record of a specific moment in time when the ink poured across the page. Like men in hats, the letter will never go out of style.

That said, I f*cking love email. The day that my grandmother first wrote me an email my brain almost exploded. My life wouldn’t be the same if I didn’t receive an email a week from my ultra-conservative uncle letting me know just who, specifically, is currently ruining America. Getting emails during the morning from a friend in London who is just getting home from work really makes me believe that it IS a small world after all. But the greatest glory of the 21st century is the chain email.

No, not the kind where if you don’t forward the message to 15 beautiful girls you’re going to get breast cancer. Not the kind where if you don’t forward the email to everyone you know, Bill Gates is going to shut down the Internet because he’s not really sure if anyone is using it. Not the kind where there are fifteen photos of cats and dogs praying with each other (although I love a good animal prayer photo).

Not the kind where a Kenyan barrister is writing to tell you that a distant relative died and they can’t find anyone, and I mean anyone, to claim these $15 million. Except me. Not the kind where there is a new drug out there that men can use to date rape you AND negate your birth control, so you not only get raped, but most definitely get pregnant as well, and if you love your girlfriends, you’ll pass it on. Not the kind where this girl was walking down an alley, but she didn’t get raped because Jesus was walking with her, and if you believe that Jesus is walkng down dark alleys with you, FORWARD THIS MESSAGE!

No, not those. The kind I love are the ones that alloe my friends and I to have multiple conversations happening at once about complete and utter nonsense. In this way, email surpasses the letter as the most amazing way of communication that I can imagine.

Tell me about your day. I wrote to my roommates. Tell me anything. Lies are fine.

Roomate number one: One time, I killed a fuchsia unicorn with five legs, and gave it to {redacted} as a demonstration of my undying love and devotion. Then she ate it.

Roommate number two: I adopted an African baby. They’re totally in this season.

Roommate number one: I grew a third nipple on my torso

Roommate number three: Crunk.

For some things, only a letter will do. Ecards are an abomination. Email is wholly inappropriate for matters of the epic or the sentimental. But a third nipple? That is one thing that loses its meaning after 5 days in the post.