Dear Wigleaf, If I could, I would write you this postcard in immaculate calligraphy. I would douse it with Aqua di Gio, the cologne my high school boyfriend always wore. See, I'd time travel back to high school, master calligraphy, write this postcard, go to a party at someone's house whose parents are out of town, and slip the postcard into the open mouth of some guy deep in a k-hole—and it would emerge nearly two decades later from a black hole, and drift through the darkness to Mars. NASA would spy the postcard through one of their high-powered telescopes. They would rocket themselves over to Mars, finally set foot on the red planet, which would be really exciting, obviously, but let's face it: it's no moon-landing. The astronauts would locate the postcard, and when they picked it up out of the dust, they'd ponder in unison: "Who the hell still wears Aqua di Gio?" They'd set out to find this fellow who smells exactly like 1997-Y2K, and there he'd be kicking around a hacky sack half-heartedly—my high school boyfriend. Last I heard he was a goat herder in Mexico, but while I can envision it, I have no proof. I can just as easily envision him on Mars, where the astronauts would find him. "Did you write this?" they'd ask him, showing him the postcard. "No," he'd reply. "But that smell and the calligraphy—they remind me of a girl I once knew." Yours, Emma - - -
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