A LETTER FROM MY FUTURE SELF

By

Nathan Thornton

Dear 2007 Nathan,
 
I wish I could have gotten this to you sooner, but autumn of 2007 is as far back into the past as our current technology will allow us to mail letters. I’m going to keep this as brief as possible, because it costs like 15 Galactic Credits a keystroke to send it.

Anyway, there’s really only one way to tell you this: I have cancer. I mean, you have cancer. In the future. We have it, I guess. And it’s totally your fault. Well, you and the Mr. Clean Magic Eraser.
 
I remember how excited you were when the Magic Eraser hit the market. “Wow, this thing is the bomb-diggity!” you said (Is that the right expression? I’m having a hard time remembering early 21st Century slang. Nowadays, all slang has been replaced by a portable system of colored lights with cascading water flowing over them. Also, the word “nowadays” has returned to common usage). You said, “That old blueberry stain? It’s coming right off the countertop! And this baked-on caked-on stuck-on food grime on my porcelain stovetop is disappearing with ease! Crayon on the walls? No problem with the revolutionary new Mr. Clean Magic Eraser!”
 
I can’t even tell you what an asshole you sounded like.
 
So here’s the deal: You know how you always wondered what heretofore unheard-of substance the Mr. Clean Magic Eraser could possibly be made of? What unprecedented technological advance had allowed mankind to unearth such an awesome level of cleaning power? I’m sure you’ve probably figured it out by now: Cancer. It was full of cancer. Just like you’ll be in the future.  
 
As the people of my time now know, the Mr. Clean Magic Eraser is one of the more accurately named products of your era. It erases stains, scuffs and marks, but it also literally erases magic – just like it says it does. It’s complicated, but it’s sort of a yin and yang thing. It eliminates the mark on the wall, but also destroys hope, beauty, truth, and the infinite possibility of imagination along with it. Oh, and it also invents a new kind of cancer. That I have. All over the place. Because you couldn’t get the kids to be a little more careful with the Sharpies.
 
This new cancer is nothing like the lame, weak-ass cancer you guys used to have. Our scientists have named it Cancer 2. And like most sequels, it’s much shittier. It’s kind of like regular cancer, except you’re completely engulfed in flames most of the time. Also, you sneeze scorpions. It seemed completely impossible to me at first, but like anything, you get used to it. Used to seeing the scorpions, that is. Not having the cancer. The cancer always sucks.
 
But I try to stay upbeat. I think about the old days. I remember how white the handle on the refrigerator door was, and how we laughed that time we got the stains off the coffee maker – I can still see my (your) smiling face reflected in the gleaming carafe. Those were good times. Much better than things are here in the future. You know, because of that cancer I was telling you about. The mutated megacancer you gave me.
 
No big deal, though. Just thought you’d want to know.
 
See you in the future.
 
Sincerely,
Nathan Thornton
August 16, 2008