I'm not that old.
But I'm old enough to pine for the days when (normal) people wrote each other letters.  Somewhere, stashed away in the drop ceiling of one of my old places of residence, sit two huge shoeboxes stuffed with hundreds (thousands?) of notes from grade school and high school. 
Yellowing paper, wilting in the humidity and wild temperature swings of unconditioned space above the ceiling, all expertly folded into sturdy squares. 
And it just dawned on me that neither o...