Is it bizarre that, whenever I fetch the mail from the dingy wall-mounted letter box on our front porch, that I secretly thrill to the hope that someone sent me money? Even though my paycheck is direct deposit, even when it’s not my birthday or Christmas, even if the government would no sooner send us a check than it would send Ahmadinejad a fresh fruit basket, I still cling to the absurd aspiration that there will be a check, in the mailbox, for me.
Surely this is a sickness.
