The door swings open. And in walks your future.
It's standing there. A big, gnarly beast. Like a dead bug seven feet tall and angry. You get up from the couch and try to explain. Your future hits you with a brick paw, knocking your teeth out.
You smile and say, “I'm not writing, today.”
Your future frowns and asks, “Did you ever?”
Man, you think, I got to quit drinking.
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