I gave you quite a bit of leeway for the first year. Honestly, I kept thinking you'd just forgotten to forward your mail. So, as any upstanding fakey-American, I returned everything to sender. Letters from relatives. Junk mail. Credit card applications.
But seriously. Three years later and I'm still getting all kinds of envelopes: over-sized and miniature, from attorneys and collection agencies and every Better Business Bureau known to man. I'm OK with that.
Not cool with the grandma penmanship. The cutesey flower-adorned envelopes addressed to you in antique cursive, barely legible to the untrained eye. The ones with an angel sticker instead of a return address. The ones begging for a response.
A few months ago, I broke down and tracked down the owner of the gorgeous script. She was 83. You fixed her roof last year, but the early storms we had resulted in a leak. Which has caused extensive damage. She doesn't want money. She doesn't even want an apology. She just wants you to fix her home.
ps. That one day you and your Brad-Pitt-blond-hair showed up in my driveway definitely freaked me out. I know you used to live here. Still. I'd prefer to keep my property creepy-karma-free.