I have accumulated an impressive collection of e-mails to and from people I haven't seen in at least 20 years.

The Internet has given me this new way of relating to other human beings. I can suddenly pop back into their lives when it would be too awkward to phone them, or if visiting them in person would cost hundreds of dollars and might get me shot.

Whatever state I'm in, whatever time it is or whatever else I'm doing when I decide to impose myself upon them again – drunk, awake at 3 a.m., dissecting worms – none of it matters. I send out a note, and if they answer, great. If they don't, I still have my booze. And my worms.

The correspondence follows:

Dear Phil,

Well, it's me, your best friend at Claremont High School. I saw your name and e-mail address in our alumni page and remembered how we said we'd always be friends. I kind of blew that, I guess, and I really feel crummy about it. But please, tell me everything about your life now.

Barry,

My life is fine. Can you send me a quarter? I put my name on the alumni list so I could ask everyone I've ever known for a quarter. I promise I won't spend it on crack. I'll buy lots of other stuff. Whatever that stuff is that people buy that isn't crack.

Ms. Carla Stanford,

I ran across your name on the Internet, and I dimly recall that we knew each other once. But I cannot remember when that was or what the circumstances were. Could you tell me who you are?

Barry,

You were stalking me for two years after we went out on one blind date. You threatened to murder my turtles. You shaved your Social Security number into my family's front lawn, along with a phone number that you said we could call to check on your credit rating. You hired a stunt pilot to sky-write "You are my fiancé in the afterlife." You kidnapped my stuffed animals and sent me pictures of them from various exotic locations. I can't believe you forgot who I was. Were you drunk that whole time? This just cheapens the whole experience.

Prof. Davidson,

When I took your class in college, you said a very profound thing: "Reality has no fixed point." I just wanted you to know that those words helped me live a freer, more relaxed life, and I think they helped a lot of other people as well.

Barry,

I was an undercover FBI agent, and that was just a line I used for ferreting out who was selling LSD. Please be advised that reality does have a fixed point. We believe it to be in an undisclosed location in Kansas.

Dear Camilla,

It's me, Barry Lank. You and I passed each other in the hallway once in sixth grade, and then I never saw you again. Remember? The guy with the glasses? Everyone used to call me "Barry Stank"? Those were great times, weren't they? Hey, I'm still wearing those same glasses as when you saw me, and the same clothes, too! I got to thinking about what my life might have been like if I'd stopped to talk to you. The road not taken, you know?

Dear Barry,

Boy, I never expected to hear from you. I mean, I really never expected to hear from you. I was counting on not hearing from you. I've made a nice little life for myself, and it hasn't been easy. After I passed you that one time in the hall, I couldn't get your evil, ugly Satanic spawn face out of my mind. I turned to drugs and hypnosis, until a doctor – well, a "doctor" – located the part of my brain where the memory of you existed. He cut it right out of my head with a grapefruit knife. I lost some memories of my family as well and had to relearn how to scratch my right leg. I was just reaching a point where I was able to hold down a job and perhaps lead an independent life, when your e-mail arrived.

Still, I'm glad to hear you're doing well.