Every week I get letters. Real ones, sent quietly, usually late at night, usually starting with some version of I do not even know how to say this. I have been answering them for sixteen years, and I have finally decided to open the mailbox properly.
This is where you write to me. Tell me what is actually going on, the stalled out sex life, the thing you have never once said out loud, the question you are too embarrassed to ask your own best friend. I have heard nearly all of it by now, and I promise you have not shocked me yet.
First name only, or make one up, I will never ask which. Your email is entirely optional, leave it blank if you do not want a reply, and I will still read every word either way. Nothing you send me goes anywhere public unless you tell me it is fine to use anonymously in a future Dear Madam Ang letter, and even then, no last names, no identifying details, just the truth of it.
Go on. I am already awake.