I've got mail.

Unused to getting personal mail for nearly two years, I rarely check my mailbox. Then I received a call from the post office. A postal worker said the carrier could fit any more mail into the box so I had to empty it. It's a small town where we have personal relationships at the Post Office.

It's part of the complicated of my last two years.

When I arrived at Bloomington, with little money to my name, I was allowed to stay in an apartment at the newspaper. Rather than get a PO Box, I filled out one of those yellow change of address cards at the Post Office with the address of the newspaper. 

Nine months later, I was laid off due to the Gannett-GateHouse merger and told I had to vacate the apartment. (In the previous time, I had worked seven days a week with little time to look for an apartment. Oddly, two weeks before during a week-long furlough, I started looking for a place.)

When I went to the Post Office and tried to get a PO Box, the worker said I needed a street address in order to get a box. I explained my problem and the worker said the Post Office does not allow change of address forms to go from business to a personal address.

Somewhere in America, someone has a bunch of my mail -- mostly bills.

So I unloaded this armload of mail from my box, which was indeed packed. Not even another bill could fit.

The list:

Bill.

Bill.

Bill.

Bill.

New Yorker.

Bill.

Bill.

Bill from a guy named Bill.

New York Review of Books.

Bill.

Bill.

Bon Appetit.

Bill.

Bill.

Threatening bill.

Wine Spectator.

Threatening bill from a guy named Bill.

Peace and a return to society for all of you my brothers and sisters.