Letter from the Past

The Journal Entry to the Past, Part 1233

This letter is the intellectual property of Sam Ferrato, created in the year 2179 in the State of Northern California. Any unauthorized use, reproduction, or distribution of its contents is strictly prohibited.

It’s time for yet another letter to the past, maybe this one will get to the right address, right person and hopefully right time.

“Hey, Elliot! It’s me, Sam! 

Writing into nothing as always, hoping that maybe one day, the future will be futuristic enough for us to talk at least one more time. How are you? What’s new…or what’s old I suppose?

I’m doing just alright enough today. Not my best month, maybe not even a best year, but complaining is illegal in seventeen states now (out of remaining thirty), so I better shut up right here, right now. However, writing complaints are still good and kicking, so, everyone is a writer nowadays (insert my diabolical laugh somewhere here).

It’s 2179, and micro bee robots are out and about their business, my genetically modified cat, Zeus, the size of an old-school German Shepherd (circa 2056), is sprawled across the floor, purring like an old blender with personality. Oh, and tea? Tea is always hot. Always. The future may be chaotic, but lukewarm beverages are one problem we’ve annihilated.

But here’s the kicker: even with all this technological brilliance, people are still, well... people. Our species has somehow managed to hold onto its badge of emotional ineptitude like it’s a family heirloom. Case in point: Jake, my husband.

Last night, this cosmic piece of clam looked me straight in the eye and called me stuck up. STUCK UP. Me! All because I said I didn’t want to go to the comic conventions anymore. Like, sure, blame the person who spent years tolerating the sensory hell of endless cartoon-character meetups, sweaty crowds, and the world’s most overpriced collectible figurines. And why did I do this? Out of love. That’s right, Elliot. I never even liked comics. I just went because he liked them, and somehow that makes me the bad guy?

Oh, it hurt. It did. I mean, stuck up? It’s not like I was sipping tea with my pinky out, declaring, “Ugh, how pedestrian.” I just wanted a break. But he didn’t know that, because I never told him.

I went year after year, smiling through gritted teeth, pretending to care about plotlines involving radioactive ferrets and time-traveling sandwiches. I thought I was being a good partner. Turns out, I was just setting myself up for this moment of supreme misunderstanding.

And him? Oh, the nerve. He had the gall to say, “It’s not like I forced you to go.” Really? REALLY? What about the guilt-tripping? The sighs? The passive-aggressive, “I guess I’ll just go alone this year” routine? He didn’t force me, sure, but he did weaponize disappointment like a pro.

So now we’re in a classic 2179 marital standoff. Me in the kitchen with my endless cup of tea, Zeus glaring judgmentally from the countertop. Him in the living room, pretending to read some holo-comic while sneakily peeking at me like I’m the villain of the story. Neither of us budging. Neither of us apologized. Ugh. The more I write about it the angrier it makes me. I better stop for now.

Talk to you later

Hugs,

Sam”

Two days later. 

The lights flickered. Not your normal, “Oops, power surge,” flicker. No, this was a full-blown sci-fi event. The room went dark, streaked with veins of neon green that crackled like they’d been summoned by a mad scientist. Zeus yowled and bolted under the table. Jake muttered something about “time dilation anomalies,” which, as far as I know, is just fancy talk for “I’m scared but trying to sound smart.”

And then, hovering in the middle of the room, was the letter.

Yes, an actual letter. Paper, glowing faintly blue, floating like it was on some cosmic to-do list. It was addressed, quite elegantly, to:

“Sam, you, little shit”

I grabbed it.

The handwriting was shaky, almost like it had been written by someone using a pen for the first time in years. Inside, the letter read:

Hey, you two.

It’s Elliot. Yes, that Elliot. Your ancient ancestor from 2054. Long story short, time-traveling letters are a thing now, and I couldn’t resist meddling in your nonsense.

Let me be blunt: You’re both being little shits.

Sam, you should’ve just told him you hated comics from the start. Seriously, why suffer in silence? That’s like ordering food you’re allergic to just because someone else likes it. Jake, you’re an ungrateful doofus who failed to notice your wife’s obvious discomfort. “Stuck up”? Really? I’ve seen better insults from toddlers.

Look, in my time, we dealt with real problems—like rising sea levels, toilet paper shortages, and the existential dread of choosing between Spotify ads or a subscription. Your issues are laughable. Sit down, talk it out, and apologize. If you don’t, I’ll hack into your neural implants and make sure every unspoken thought you’ve ever had plays on a public loop during your next neighborhood potluck.

You’re welcome.

Sincerely, Elliot

We stared at the letter, then at each other. Zeus, ever the drama king, jumped onto the counter and knocked my tea over for added effect.

“So,” Jake finally said, rubbing the back of his neck like he always does when he knows he’s been a jerk, “maybe I shouldn’t have called you stuck up.”

“Maybe I should’ve told you I hated comics years ago,” I muttered.

And that was it. No big Hollywood reconciliation, no passionate declarations. Just two stubborn idiots admitting, in the quietest way possible, that they were wrong.

Later, as Zeus sprawled between us on the couch, his tail flicking in contentment, I couldn’t help but laugh.

The real future is here! Time travel window - unlocked. Will we screw it up like humans did with internet in early 2000? Who knows, I don’t care, I have so many letters to write.