A letter from July 26th, 2020

Dear FutureMe, I sincerely hope that you remember 2020 as "the bad year" and not "the year when everything started going downhill." You're 27 years old which is pretty wild. And trust me, you're not old. You're exactly the age you're supposed to be. I am now hoping that you're alive. I'm sure you'll recall your existential fits in college. Oh, I just remembered that your brain is fully developed! Congratulations! This letter is a mess. I guess I want answers to questions like how's mom? And how's Sushi? And how's Ellie? Do you still play Magic and D&D? Where do you live? Etc. But I don't get an email back, unfortunately. As of writing this letter, time is perceived linearly, so no letter for me. I would REALLY like to know what job(s) you have. That's what worries me right now (among other things). I would quite like to live in Europe. It just seems better there, you know? Anyway, um, I love you? No, that's weird. God, 5 years is a long time. I'll make a bold prediction: Betty White is still alive! ... She's not, is she? F's in the chat for Betty. Take care of yourself, James Tanner Echols