The Curse of Future Tom

Future Tom, it’s time you and I had a talk.

Sure, I know.  We can’t do that, not face to face.  The universe would explode.  Sure.

And I know we’ve had our disagreements, our temporal quirks.  Sometimes I put cell phones and car keys in weird places, and I forget to tell you where.  Sometimes I agree to do horrible things, like go and see the Chipmunks sequel, and who has to deal with that?

You do.  Just like hangovers; they’re your problem, not mine.

But really, I don’t think you give me enough credit.  I mean, when I started running, and got up to four miles in a month, that was for you pal.  By definition, that was for you.  You were the one walking around ten pounds lighter, while I was back in time, playing with my belly.

But did you thank me?  No.  You thanked Kimya Dawson.  You thanked the Flobots.  You thanked Bill Gates for the iPod, even though I bought it for you.

Sometimes I’m so mad at you for things like that, I consume ten beers and a one pound cheeseburger called an Anvil – screw you.

But that doesn’t help.  We’ve got to learn to communicate more effectively.

So let’s just say it: