Go to hell Paul.

Dear FutureMe, It's semester 1, 2005 at Universtiy. You've/I've been totally fucking everything up. You/I barely managed to get through this semester only by administering a balm made up of fabrications and sympathy enlisted from teaching staff desperate to believe that there is good in all their students. Whether I/you finish my/your degree is speculative. With an enemy as bad as mine, namely me/you, it seems unlikely. You/I are in a relationship just recently upgraded to engagement all solely because you/I felt guilty about what her culture/community in a country far removed from your/my own would do to her once they found out her virginity had been thoughtlessly removed because you/I couldn't help seducing such a pretty young thing. Dynasties are rarely founded on such shaky foundations. So when you/I receive this it will be interesting to see if you/I are affluently fluid enough to even have access to a basic utility like an internet capable computer terminal. I'm guessing not. This will just be another unclaimed piece of digital detritus. Such wasted potential. How many times have you/I heard that, echoes with a reach far beyond your/my childhood school reports. Bah. Homeless sounds like too much responsibility for your/my weak shoulders. If only you/I wasn't so cowardly, you/I would have chosen the other well worn path, trodden by many other societal failures. To be remembered as a statistic is at least to be remembered in some way. Today's your/my birthday. This email is a loathsome example of self pity. You/I will read it and mope and groan about how consistantly you/I waste opportunities that many others around the world don't get the chance to fuck up. Then after a period of comfortable mental funk, your/my birthday will be over and you'll/I'll plod on. Give it up. This is your cue. Enough of the self pity. If you haven't gotten it together by now, finish it.