I received a letter from myself from a parallel universe earlier today. I was only about twenty minutes out from leaving for work, so I figured I would just read it later. My curiousity got the best of me though. What if he is living much better than me, and I could easily change to become just like him. Hopefully not. Hopefully he’s doing much worse and I can follow the groove of my own habits resting assured that in the cosmic bell curve I rank slightly above average.

The letter was written on the same note pad that I stole from my grandmas friend many years ago. Interesting what stays the same throughout universes. First thing I noticed is that version of me speaks so dramatically. I’m sure he would claim to hate all the melodrama, but I can tell he thinks it makes him more interesting. Made it more of a chore to read.

He’s not doing well, thank god. It seemed obvious to me why. He’s still friends with them, and he’s still with her. The bullshit he is yet to shed. Of course he doesn’t feel like himself, of course he feels best when he’s alone. It would be very easy for me to write to him, “my beautiful baby bird, fly far far away, and in the above the clouds, in complete solitude, you will look back down at your life, and realize how far away from it and yourself you always were,” but, I think it would be unethical to meddle in such foreign affairs. Don’t want a big butterfly effect thing. So I write back to him, sounds like it sucks, wish I could help. Then I grab my keys and leave, to arrive, if I speed, twenty minutes late to work.