Hi, Dave. It’s me, John. Let me take a second to build up some credibility. In 6 years on January 27th, you’re going to get married to Sarah, the girl you keep complaining about who sits in front of you in your Biomechanics class. At your bachelor party beforehand is when you finally let on about how your shitty dad beat you your whole life until he croaked from cancer when we were in ninth grade instead of moving to Antarctica to work at a science lab like you told me. The next 5 US presidents, in order, will be Childress, Goodwin, Goodwin, Wahlberg, and Sanders. Your middle nave is not David, it was Fuscia the whole time and you lied because you thought it sounded too girly. I tell you all this because I need you to believe what I am about to say. I am writing this message 100 years in the future, in the year 2125. By this point, you and everybody else we know is dead(Of old age.)(Mostly.) It’s just me now. And at some point in the next 5 to 7 years, or frankly earlier if you feel like it, I need you to **KILL ME**. This is in order to prevent me from making an exceedingly stupid mistake in 2033 with regards to sneaking onto a CIA blacksite and touching a series of confusing science things I most certainly _should not have touched_. You will not be able to convince me not to go when the time comes. Waiting that long will either lead to me escaping, or a tear-stricken shootout in the rain, one neither of us wants to be a part of. Believe me. That’s happened a few times now. I always win. Big picture, I fiddled with a stupid obelisk when trying to uncover some grand conspiracy, and now I am immortal, or at least forever young, and being thrown around the time stream like god’s personal little misery piñata. As I write this, I am at a tea house in what you might call Beijing, though the remarkably polite Mecha-Chairman Mao would prefer if you didn’t. The next time I make it to the Americas pre-2020, I’ll drop this letter at your childhood home with your shitty cancer dad, punch him in the face 1-10 times, and instruct him to have it mailed to you at the correct time, and hopefully he will be able to arrange it to be delivered even after he has died. Backup plan is to talk to Obama’s secretary of Labor, who I’m pretty chill with by this point, and I’m sure he can work something out. I know you’ll probably be pretty resistant to this, and in the case you decide not to go through with it(at least until you see how right I was about the next few years), please leave any feedback on how I might have convinced you stuffed under the cushion of the big pink chair in the Oval Office when you visit in 2040. Thanks. Murder me please. I promise I’ve lived a much-too-long life.