Writers are often credited with being a peculiar lot and sometimes people are actually disappointed if a writer doesn't act like a screwball.
Then, there's this --
I was in line at the Post Office to mail my Nicholl entry and thought "oh, no, what if the mail treats my screenplay like some of my Netflix envelopes?" Some of them look like they've been gnawed by angry postal workers.
So, I snatched my envelope right out of the hands of the Postmaster and ran back to the counter to stuff my screenplay into a very important looking Priority Mail envelope. That way, I could also get a return receipt and know exactly when my screenplay arrived. Plus, it would get there quicker than most of the other last minute mailers and mine wouldn't get sent out in the very last pile to readers.
I waited in line and handed it back to the Postmaster only to think, "Wait. This doesn't solve a thing." So, I snatched it back.
It's okay. He knows me.
This time, I stuffed my screenplay into an Express Mail envelope.
"You're sure this time?" He asked.
"Of course," I explained, "Now, in case the vehicle carrying my envelope falls prey to flood, earthquake, Apocalypse, or alien abduction, I still have time to print and mail another copy postmarked by May 1st."
As I left, I heard the lady behind me ask, "Was she serious?"
"It's okay," he replied, "she works for the City."