I always thought I had a pretty good relationship with Trauma. During the course of my life, I've been to hell and back so many times I no longer stop to ask for directions. Nothing scared me anymore...and then I opened my mailbox...

Recently, we moved into a new house in a peaceful neighbourhood where the sun shines and children can be heard playing in their yards. It is rather blissful. The house and I were in our honeymoon phase, where it showed me all its cracks, sand, and weeds, and I showed it... well, nothing. It's a house, after all.

One Saturday, it showed me its mailbox!

The first thing I discovered on opening the little door was a stack of mail riddled with holes, looking like not-so-pretty paper doilies. It did make me wonder about aliens and other logical explanations for the phenomenon, but all seemed normal and right in my world otherwise. I occasionally enjoy receiving mail, so I decided to remove the old stash of unwanted newspapers and advertisements to make room for a new stash of unwanted newspapers and advertisements.

I had a nice, efficient rhythm of grab and pull going on when I stuck my hand in the box for the third time and brought out a little more than just a fistful of perforated paper.

There was Romeo and Juliet in a passionate, slimy embrace, unfazed by the touch of my hand and the shriek exploding from my throat with enough force to set off a car alarm two houses down the road and make the neighbour's dog howl at the moon in the middle of the day.

The lovers' presence alerted me to the potential for more snail visitors. With some effort, I managed to twist myself into a humbling squat that made my legs bend at unnatural angles, with my head swivelled nearly upside down to investigate the inside of the box. What I saw gave a whole new meaning to the term snail mail. I was ecstatic to see that my mother had made this wonderful discovery earlier in the week and tried to convince our visitors to leave by introducing half a box of pink snail pellets to their diet.

It didn't work because I was abruptly introduced to Uncle Joe, Aunt Martha, Cousin Larry hanging inside the door, and their extended family. Our mailbox did not have just one or two snails taking a break from the rain, having a sauna, and a chat before moving on again.

No! The walls and roof of the box were covered in multiple generations of wall-to-wall snails. Children, parents, and great-grandparents to at least the fifth level. As I gazed admiringly at the impressive sewerage system they'd created along the edges of the floor in mountains aiming for the ceiling, I realised one thing without any doubt.

I should not have named them because this was war!

Now, I am a peaceful being, all for living and letting others live too. However, I have issues with squatters eating my mail and doing landscaping using their excrement in places where I have to stick my hand. Besides, these invaders were also bound to have some destructive fun with the plants.There was only one logical course of action, which brought me to the vital question: "How does one annihilate a small village without touching any of the inhabitants?"

I was still wrestling with the spectacular possibilities some light arson could provide when my mother wisely suggested a flood instead. It was, after all, used successfully in the time of Noah and seemed to be the method with the lowest grossness factor. It also spared me from the scrutiny buying a flame thrower could perhaps invite.

Armed with a hosepipe and a spray head that could potentially displace an annoying person within a range of one meter (I am going to test this theory soon, I know many annoying people who qualify for the event), I lifted the small door of the mailbox and opened fire.

As it turns out, I was wrong about the low grossness factor! I realised that as streams of soggy paper, snail pellet mush, and surfing snails cascaded to my feet, splashing all over and around me.

I might've cried a little, but I did not give up. I was gonna win this war! No slimy creepy crawly landing on me or hair accessories made of pink sludgy paper mache would bring me down. I'm tough and washable! Good thing, too, because I desperately needed a wash after all that.

Small problem... the door had an instep, a nice little edge preventing everything from just flowing out with the water as it did so considerately in my imagination... I learned that painful fact the second I pulled the spray nozzle's trigger. I admit that some planning in advance might've been a good idea. Yes, scooping was required! The wet, snail excrement kind of scooping. I shall not go into the gory details as I do not want to spread my trauma around too much.

It took some time, and I might have hit a new, never reached before, soprano note or two on occasion during the process, but eventually, the only signs of the massacre were some wet, pink biofriendly snail pellets and scoop gouges in the mud.

What does the victor of any valiantly fought war do once they're done freaking out convulsively, singing the latest chart-topping pop song using only the word "gross" as lyrics? They decorate, of course! I did... in abundance!

I had copper tape, and I wasn't afraid to use it! I made the mailbox pretty on the outside; it can now be seen from Mars when the sun hits it just right. I did consider spelling the words "No Vacancy" along the base for the more sophisticated snails out there, but I would probably have run out of tape around the 'c'; instead, I simply traced the lines of all the windows and doors and wherever the stuff would stick.

Just to ensure any new migrants will reconsider the lodgings due to the lousy catering, I scattered some pet-friendly snail pellets inside on the sparkling clean floor... only a handful this time.

I am pleased to announce that none of my mail thus far has resembled paper doilies.

The End... I hope...