Tell Me The Truth: Where Is My Robot?

Dear Sirs,

I never asked for your treatise.

Your recent manifesto bored me to tears.

Every one of your manifestos, in fact, has landed unwelcome on my doorstep.

No man over the age of twenty-five should write a manifesto. After that it’s just too fucking late.

I want you to know that I haven’t forgotten a single one of your earlier promises. By now, you once led me to believe, I should be flying around with a rocket pack strapped to my back.

By now I should have –at the very least– walked on the moon.

So much of the future you told me about never happened.

All those big ideas.

Would you like to tell me just what the hell exactly you were talking about?

Do you know what I have in place of my rocket pack and my moon buggy? Not much, I’m afraid. I am a blood mule. I spend my days walking all the fuck over a hospital with a cooler full of blood. There are a bunch of us. We have a softball team (3-16 last season in what is essentially a league for the geriatric and the obese) called the Blood Mules.

I’m not complaining, exactly. The job comes with decent benefits, not the least of which is the frequent opportunity it provides me to get shit-faced with nurses, many of whom I also sleep with.

Well, not many, actually. Some.

I just thought you should know that you didn’t completely destroy all of us. Not that I expect you’ll take much consolation in that piece of information.

Yours very sincerely,

Brad Zellar