Dear Universe

Dear Universe,

I know we’ve had our moments of doubt and pain, but I thought we were on pretty good terms. I’ve recently learned that there’s a fair chance that the Mayans predicted that you will be closing up shop on my birthday. Thanks for thinking of me. I’m flattered you’d plan your final moments to coincide with the anniversary of my birth. That sounds like a story fit for warrior poets. Still, I wish you’d consulted me before making the final arrangements. I would have looked at this year quite a bit differently had I known of your humble birthday gift of the end of existence (and several of the years leading up to it, especially 2009 which can fuck right off).

So, now that I have a mere 48hrs left to enjoy existence, sleeping seems really damned inconvenient. I’d really rather not spend my last days tweaked out on an unholy combination of intravenous caffeine and RedBull. Funny how 4hrs sleep sounds like barely enough when you’re flying across the country, yet woefully irresponsible when that’s nearly 10% of one’s remaining time in existence. Perspective is a sometimes cruel manifestation of personal growth.

Maybe next time you decide to end it all, you could at least give us some sort of warning. Folks seem keen on natural disasters as “acts of god” or signs of the impending apocalypse. I, for one, always thought it would somehow involve multiple super-volcanoes and devastating earthquakes, possibly accompanied by zombies, but maybe you’re going for something more subtle. Maybe the first season of Jersey Shore was your two-minute warning, and we missed the memo. Well, ain’t that a bitch? Hey, at least we got zombies. And who knew zombies were into spray tanning? Did not see that coming…



ps. thanks for, well, everything. 🙂

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