If I could pack myself in a parcel and mail myself via US Post 3-day priority to you for your birthday, a belated pressie, I'd probably be so beat-up, half-suffocated by the time I got there, all stinking from inevitable bodily issues and bloody from scuffs and bangs, and probably crying too, because I'd be such a wuss, I have no doubt - I am a wuss! I have very little threshold when it comes to stuff like discomfort at the level of being jammed in a box for three days shipping and hard handling (DESPITE THE 'FRAGILE' TAG! BASTARDS!), and I'm sure I'd be crying like a baby by the halfway mark, sitting hemmed into the little limbo of my own me-size box, surrounded by the unseen pitch blackness outer limbo of some anonymous, enormous warehouse facility in-between trucks and planes.
Twisting and twitching from muscle spasms, rubbing raw against the constricted cardboard universe of my own rash decision - I'd be softly moaning through my snot and tears, no doubt: "I didn't think it would be so HARD, to be MAILED!" - that you'd probably open it up and say, "EW! YUCK. Who the hell sent me THIS?"
You'd never find out, though. Because I'd long since have eaten the card. Partly from pure shame - but also from being fucking STARVED!!
Jesus, what a bad idea that would turn out to be, if I did that. See, it's a good thing I have a good imagination. That lets me put some thought into things, first.
It's totally worth the extra for overnight.