Dear Closed Letters,
Oh, hi there. How are you doing? I am doing pretty great. Let me introduce myself, although I’m sure you’ve already heard of me. I am an open letter. And I am all the rage.
I know it’s hard for you to grasp that people prefer me these days, but just look at me. Take a good, long look. I’m young and I’m hip. I don’t have a handkerchief and three Werther’s Originals in my pocket. There is also no chance that I will get lost in the mail, eaten by a dog, stained with coffee rings, nor will I yellow over time.
I feel your resistance, but the people are tired of the iron shackles of closed letters! These people demand freedom from pen and paper! Freedom from privacy and tact! You are the cocoon, closed letters. A sticky, suffocating, tiny coffin of doom. I am the butterfly. Do you see where I’ m going with this fucking awesome analogy? If that guy over there wants to write an angry letter to Gwyneth Paltrow, I CAN MAKE THAT HAPPEN! I am his vehicle of bitterness and fury. At a stranger. Had that guy over there just written a wrinkly, smelly, old-timey epistle, I’m sure the proper authorities would have intercepted it before it had reached its intended target. Failure. I know these are harsh words but someone needed to break it to you.
Don’t feel so bad, closed letters. You’re not a completely dead medium. I am sure some hipsters and the elderly utilize you on a semi-regular basis. And since all things are cyclical, eventually you may be relevant again. Perhaps after the apocalypse, when technology is history and people have to build fires with sticks and use fashionable scarves and Stephenie Meyer books for first-aid purposes.