Dear Me

Dear Me,

My name is--well, that doesn't matter because I'm not here to talk about me, um, I guess that's not the truth either. You see, my proposed question is about our New Years' resolution, and that's what I want to talk to you about; however, the central subject isn't me. You see, I'm trying to get my story told. I guess that's not the total truth. What I mean by that is that I'm trying to get my generation's story told by you. I'm simply the main character in your tale about one of many generations, and I'm having trouble encouraging an idiot, you, who is supposed to be writing my story.

You've completed quite a bit of the undertaking, but, for some reason, you've lost the tail end of where you left off in the writing of it. I've jostled, shook, and tickled your imagination. Heck, I've even slammed your dreams with the horrors of not completing that work before you die. However, you can't seem to salivate over the prospect of completing my story.

Now, down to business. We're getting on in age. I mean that we, well, we're not doddering or anything like that, but if we don't hurry, we'll be mumbling my story into the spoon full of oatmeal the attendant feeds us. You need a hard, swift boot in the, well, you know what. What you need is not encouragement; you need "threats" from everyone around you. I believe you're past the point of civil discourse and have entered the realm of mental or even physical abuse.

So, this is what I propose for the coming year: If you don't do your due diligence beginning immediately, I will haunt your dreams, I will take over your conscious body and encourage others to do physical harm to you. However, I guess that could be considered masochism, and you may be placed in an institution where they won't allow you even a sharp pencil with which to complete "my" story. So let's don't go that far.

However, I'll pester you until you start chewing on your thumb. How's that?

Sincerely, the other side of Me (362 words)