Dear, Alternate Me

I’m writing in response to the letter you sent me.

Fuck off

I don’t have time for turkeys like you. No you can’t have five-hundred dollars. No you can’t have a liter of plasma. No you can’t have a kidney. In fact, the joke’s on you because I lost my last kidney a decade ago. Now all I’ve got is a balloon with a sponge stuffed in it.

Even if you are ‘Alternate Me’, that sounds like an ‘Alternate Me’ problem. I’ve got problems of my own. I smoke too much and drink too little. I just bought a new pair of jeans that are too small… I got the same size as always, I’ve just gotten fat. My house is a mess and no one will clean it… including me. I locked myself out of my car last week and had to go ALL THE WAY AROUND to the passenger side to grab the hide-a-key. I’ve got a dog outside leashed to a runner. The stupid animal keeps getting tangled around the same stupid tree. It drives me stupid. I talked to me therapist about it and she said ‘write yourself a letter about your feelings’. Whatever. I’m killing two birds with one stone, I’ve been meaning to tell you to leave me alone for awhile now anyway.

Basically I just don’t see how YOU being on your deathbed has anything to do with ME. It’s my Money, My blood, and My kidney, and I’m not sharing. So, next time you want to mail me across dimensions just remember: Go to hell.

Yours Truly, ‘Alternate You’

Post script: …Jackass