I was nine years old when I discovered that I am socially inept.

My family had just moved to a new town and I was entering the fifth grade in a new school. A public school. Besides the sheer ecstasy of shedding the hideous green and gold plaid jumpers, this would be an opportunity to make new friends.

I didn’t make even one.

In later years I met with slightly better success, but despite usually having a best buddy, I decided that friends were highly overrated. By college I had become a loner. It suited my temperament better and it made Christmas significantly cheaper.

I promise, this is going somewhere.

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As I sift through my assortment of letters, cursing the prevalence of junk mail, I recall a time not so very long ago when a person’s worth as a human being was measured by the quantity of mail she received.

I was in college then and I was green and grateful. It was a simpler time. A time when a fat Discover card offer would have made my heart sing. We received our mailbox assignments with trembling excitement during our first day of freshmen orientation. Never could we imagine the hell and heartbreak those mailboxes would cause us.

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“The duck’s head is on fire.”

“What?” I mumbled into my pillow.

The ominous voice repeated (with a noticeable hint of irritation), “The duck’s head is on fire!“

“Then put it out!” I retorted, and once again wrapped myself in sweet repose.

My college roommate, in case you couldn’t tell, had the amusing habit of talking in her sleep. If nothing else, it made for some delightfully absurd conversation in the wee hours of the morning.

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