AT 32$ A HIT, LETTER WRITING IS A PRETTY CHEAP ADDICTION. ON THE GRAND SPECTRUM OF COMPULSIONS, LETTER WRITING IS ONE OF THE LESS DAMAGING. IT'S MINE,

I feed it and cultivate it, for better for better or for worse. I am accountable for my actions. I am twenty-one, and I am a fanatic letter writer.

I began my first letter writing campaigns during my freshman year at the University of Edinburgh. There I had plenty of time on my hands. So much time that even drinking from lunch without stopping until three in the morning got boring. I wrote home. I wrote home lots. When you're oceans away, it's a logical thing to do. But I did it obsessively, sending and receiving 10-15 letters and postcards a week. I was closer to my friends when I was in another hemisphere than we are when we're in compatible timezones.

I left Edinburgh because I had too much time with too little to do--a now enviable conundrum. Yet my letter writing has not ceased with my return. Every once in a while, when the stress of Harvard keeps me from sleeping and I find myself with a few unaccounted for hours in the wee morning, I return to my old habit. I face down a blank screen and churn out a letter. I have productive insomnia. I have victims.

Letter writing is sometimes fun, sometimes demoralizing and always exciting. I have ongoing dialogues with the White House and Tony Kushner--to drop a few names of my more lofty fellow epistlers. More frequently, though, I have frustrated discourses; just me and my computer against a host of unwilling respondents.

I write letters for the thrill I get from sending them, as the targets themselves offer mostly embittering experiences. Granted, more frequently than not, I'm writing complaints, but they are always polite and generally in the form of queries. That's what we're taught at Harvard--it's not the answers that count but the questions. The world should be grateful to me for gracefully pointing out its inconsistencies.

For over a year now the same person has been inspecting all of my underwear. I buy new knickers every reading period when the time required for laundering doesn't compare to the cost of another week's panties. For three semesters now, 'Jean at Jockey has had his eye on my drawers. I have a collection of inspection stickers to prove it. Is he a sexual paraphiliac, an overly enthusiastic worker or does Jockey have really peculiar hiring policies?

No Response.

John Grisham has to stop writing lousy novels and turning them into crap movies. Grisham flicks are guaranteed top stars. Idiots like me plunk down seven bucks thinking that this time will be different. This is the movie where John doesn't let us down, where he finally comes through with the suspense promised in the promo. But he always disappoints. Grisham gets our money and we're left empty, throwing popcorn at the screen. I refuse to think that the American people are best served by stupid pulp. John should realize he has an obligation to write above the lowest common denominator, and it is my duty as the viewing public to tell him so.

After three letters, (one after "Pelican Brief", two after "The Client") I've gotten no response. I even know where he lives.

Last summer when I returned to Edinburgh for a visit, American Airlines did me the favor of running an inflight aerobics video so we wouldn't get cramped by eight hours of cattle class seating. How considerate. And how perfectly horrible. There is never a good time to be reminded that physical conditioning should be an integral part of your daily routine. No time is less appropriate than when your eardrums have popped and you're breathing only 30% recycled air.

No Response.

The most traumatizing of all my campaigns is my non-existent relationship with Lyle Lovett. He just doesn't answer fan mail. Of course he has better things to do with his time, he's busy doing Julia, but the little people count too. It's important for him to know how much he makes me smile ,how he's one of two men who can make me cry when he sings. Since Elvis is dead, Lyle is the only one with an address.

Having, a mailbox is entering into a contract. It comes with a responsibility that we are honor-bound to live up to--we send mail and we receive mail. Simple as that. It's a transaction, Lyle. It's the American Way.

The post office is my most vital friend. Oprah would say the post office is my enabler. Last spring, the phrase on everybody's lips was" do you want the same people running health care who run the post office?" All I could answer was, YES! The post office sweeps up my thoughts and delivers them into some stranger's eager hands. The wings of the post office eagle mediate between my brain and someone else's. It's pure magic--exactly what we're demanding from doctors.

I should drop the Postmaster General a note.

I have a fantasy. Someday I will be old and bitter. [more bitter - Ed.] Eternity will stretch out before me and I will have nothing to fill my days but the depositing of Social Security checks. (If there's any Social Security left, the subject of yet another letter to the Prez). Then I will not have to polite. Then I can give free reign to my desires and complain to my heart's content. I will spend my golden years writing crotchety letters to Corporate America. Just the thought of it gives me a buzz.