Sometimes I just stop shaving and stop getting my hair cut for a while. I'm in the middle of one of these times now. I don't know why I do it. It doesn't really look good. I can't grow a proper beard, just scruffy fuzz. My hair is so curly in the back that it quickly becomes a fluffy mess. My hair is so thick on the top and sides that it immediately becomes a mop. I am fairly sure that no one in my life prefers me this way. Nevertheless, it makes me happy. I come from fuzzy people. I may work all day in an office with my name beside the door, and I may spend my Saturdays with soccer moms and dads, but I come from fuzz. I come from good people.
You know those really choppy satellite transmissions they use to add ambiance to battlefield reporting? You know, the ones that cut out every few seconds and add delay and latency on purpose to create a sense of presence and urgency? You know? Well, they should make a Blair Witch Project type of horror movie with those. It could be filmed entirely from some creepy, abandoned town in a war zone by a lost, frightened, embedded reporter whose entire unit has disappeared mysteriously. (I wonder if Geraldo would do it?) "These choppy transmissions are all the evidence we have. No one was ever found." Wouldn't that be cool? Someone should do that. If you decide to do it, please give me half the money. It was, after all, MY idea. Okay, one third, but that's my final offer.
When they dig us up, the archaeologists and paleontologists of the future, what will they think of us? What will they have to say about us? I wonder how wrong they will be. I wonder how right. "Look at this one over here," they'll say. "He was a big one for that era." They'll work for hours unearthing the bones with tiny tools, trying to figure out what kind of person this was, how he died. "This simple stone here - by his head - it must be a monument." Brushes will sweep away dirt slowly, making sure not to damage these artifacts. "It looks like ancient English script." They'll uncover the letters one at a time and then puzzle over them. "What does it mean?" "I have no idea." "I think the second word means 'Love.' I've never seen the first word before." They'll take photos for the translators, and copy the letters into their notes:
L A T E R . L O V E .
Hello, friends. If you could send a single, short message to paleontologists of the future, what would it be?
Later. Love.
