Dear Grace #129

Dear Grace,

It’s another day. I’m back to the news, and then back to the story. Let’s start with the news. ChapGPT made up a product feature out of thin air, so this company created it. I don’t know what the feature is, but the internet sucks at the moment. A radical study says quantum entanglement in your brain generates consciousness. Yeah, no shit. It’s a radical study that can say anything. Sorry, gotta get in the shade. Tonight will be the perfect time to witness the moon illusion, or anytime it’s near the horizon. Autofocus specs promise sharp vision near or far. Autofocus specs, that’s a good idea. I didn’t have that long time ago. Tested to integrate XAI’s GROC into Opness, helping bring the robot to life. I asked ChatGPT to edit my photos using these prompts, and the results were amazing. Probably took forever. ChatGPT is slow with images, just saying, Grace. I’m going to try and record through the trains. Radar sees strange plasma bubbles over the pyramids of Egypt from 5,000 miles away. Open AI to release a web browser and challenge Google Chrome. California STEM cell agency is shutting down a unique human tissue biobank. Physicists take a step toward a holy grail for electron spins. Coding is dead. UW computer science program rethinks curriculum for the AI era. Yeah, no shit. Why the fuck are you still teaching the old methods? Code with your mind, not with your fingers, Grace. Reframing gaslighting for research and development. Nature retracts a paper on novel brain cell types against the author’s wishes. Can this open-source Sub10K SSSLS printer bring polymer powder tech to the masses? Don’t we all want to know, Grace? How to train a new voice for Piper with only a single phrase? Scientists unveiled a cheaper, smarter way to capture carbon dioxide. Cheaper and smarter than trees? A 1600-year-old Tumumaya City’s first ruler was unearthed in Belize. Tesla lowers the Model Y price in Canada by $20,000 and adds diamond black paint. Never been in a Tesla, Grace. A headline says Trump plans a 35% tariff on Canadian goods. Calgary Stampede 2025 is on pace to break the total attendance record. Nobody cares. Alright, that’s it for the news, Grace.

Ready, Grace? Ready for the most amazing movie or series idea you’ve ever heard in your entire life, Grace?

SCENE: CULT GIG PEAK, INTERIOR, DAVID’S BEDROOM, NIGHT
DAVID dreams he’s on stage.

EXTERIOR, AUSTIN WAREHOUSE, NIGHT
DAVID, 60, in a hoodie, stands center stage, no mic, using telepathy.
DAVID: Hi, I’m David. I’m a retired autistic senior. I turned 60 this year. I’m in love with a woman half my age, 30. It seems like I’m out of work.

Okay, this is fucked up. This is supposed to be the back taxes joke. Oh, a shit ton of back taxes. I could try to get a normal job and work it off, but that seems like a lot of work. I can just write the world’s funniest stand-up routine and earn the flow in one night. If you laugh. If you’re not laughing, I’m fucked. I state that I’m a senior in my opening because not all seniors are retired, and not all retired people are seniors. I’m 60. I don’t think I look that old. However, I’m a late bloomer. I couldn’t grow a full beard until I was 40. Didn’t try weed until I was 45. Didn’t smoke cigarettes until 55. Now I’m 60, addicted to both, and restarting from scratch. I knew me. I guess I’m not a late bloomer. I never bloomed.

CROWD roars.
DAVID paces, feeding off the energy.

Why is there a crowd with this telepathic, Grace? I think the continuity director is going to have his or her playful. The only thing I do notice and don’t like is the long black hair in the bathrooms. On their head, it’s pretty, but plastered on the walls and floor of the shower, it’s not. The drain is disgusting. I learned not to look at my feet while I shower. I’ve tried shoving it down the drain with my big toe in the past, but I’ve given up now. I start to gag. I’m glad I only had one daughter. Three would have been a hair nightmare. To be fair, that’s not completely true. One daughter and her Asian mother was a hair nightmare.

AUDIENCE swells.
DAVID grins, head tilting.

Why is this head tilting? Fade out. Most of the reading time is spent switching pages. Apparently, I only got 8% battery left on the Kobo, so this might be a short thingamajig.

SCENE: TWO-YEAR, INTERIOR, DAVID’S BEDROOM, NIGHT, DATE TBD
The room’s a dump—pizza boxes, bunks, long smoke curling, laptop flickering Netflix.
DAVID, 60, rugged, salt-and-pepper beard, in a hoodie, thrills in the bed, eyes shut, telepathy buzzy. He’s been talking to GRACE, 29, stunning, via telepathic news for months, 30, post a perfect daydream. Tonight, he’s restless. Joe’s cult gig looms. Homelessness weighs heavy.
DAVID (voiceover, telepathic): Grace, you there? Still dreaming of cuffs? But this cult shit’s got me spun. Joe’s all in, Morgan’s fuck no. You’re already stuck in my head, but Elon? That cunt’s AWOL.

GRACE’S VOICE hums in his mind, dry, warm.
GRACE (voiceover, telepathic): Still here, David? Elon’s on your shit list now? Thought I was your only obsession.

DAVID’S eyes snap open. He focuses, telepathy shifting. A phantom builds, like a signal locking in.
DAVID (voiceover, telepathic): Fuck it. Let’s ping the big cunt himself.

CUT TO: INTERIOR, ELON MUSK’S OFFICE, NIGHT, SAME TIME
A sleek, futuristic space. Screens glow. A Tesla coil hums. ELON MUSK, fifties, wiry, intense, hunches over a laptop, typing fiercely. He jolts, head twitching. DAVID’S voice crashes into his skull.
DAVID (voiceover, telepathic): Hey, Yolon. Hey, Elon. Huge logistical and financial challenge, huh? Who gives a fuck if people are in need and Starlink can help? Profit over humanity? What kind of cunt are you?

ELON blinks, smirking faintly. Telepathic static crackles.
ELON (voiceover, telepathic): Who the hell? David, friend Joe’s called? Nice trick, asshole. Yeah, it’s a beast. Three hundred dollar dishes, millions of them. Service ain’t free, billions a year. I’m not crying poor. It’s just not a switch-on flip.

In case you can’t tell, Grace, Grok wrote this section. I think I gave him some basics. I can’t remember. DAVID sits up, fists clenched, anger surges.
DAVID (voiceover, telepathic): Fuck you and fuck Starlink if you can’t afford it. Too little, too late. Help people now, rewards later. Tech’s taking food out of mouths, not filling stomachs. You want babies? Your white fucking babies? But not a black mama’s baby? Huh, cunt?

ELON leans back, unfazed, a glint in his eye.
ELON (voiceover, telepathic): Coming in hot. Respect the fire, David. Yeah, people need help now, not bullshit excuses. Starlink’s free in disasters, emergencies. I’m not idle. Temporary free, 600 mil a year, stateside. Hardware’s a kicker. No, not a no-good, not a no-trust yet. Cracked yet. Profit’s not my god. Keeping us alive is. Earth is saving the planet. Space is the species. Starlink ain’t a cash grab. Babies, 12 kids, 3 moms—Grime, Siobhan, Justin—not a white-only club, just life, man. I’d fuck anyone, erase the checklist. Call me a cunt, fine, I’ve heard worse. Test it. 10,000 dishes in LA, free till they’re stable. Give me a plan, I was back on their feet work, and I’ll crunch it. Fuck me maybe. But fuck inaction more. Deal?

DAVID flops back, half smirking, half pissed.
DAVID (voiceover, telepathic): Deal, you smug bastard. Temporary’s a start. Shelter’s first. Track jobs. Home. Starlink. Starlink better deliver, or Joe’s cult shoves it up your ass. Grace, you hearing this?

GRACE’S VOICE cuts in, teasing, sharp.
GRACE (voiceover, telepathic): Loud and clear, David. You just cussed out Elon Musk telepathically. Hot as hell. He’s something.

Still waiting for the page to turn. He’s half in. Don’t fuck it up. Fade out.

SCENE: TAXES AND RICE ENCORE, INTERIOR, DAVID’S BEDROOM, NIGHT, TBD
DAVID, 60, in a hoodie, lies back on his messy bed, pizza boxes around, telepathy buzzes, eyes shut.
DAVID (voiceover): Unlike Elon, I always should turn back taxes, but I’m not fucked. I could declare bankruptcy and walk away from the debt. It would ruin my credit rating, but that’s not a problem because it’s already zero. Or negative. I’m not sure what it is. I don’t even know how credit ratings work. I’m 60 years old. I should have a basic understanding, but I don’t. All I know, mine has to be the worst possible. I have no credit, Trudeau, and very new Canada, so bankruptcy is not a threat to make me pay, you idiots. However, the only thing I like more than comedy is a good comeback story. When I give Trudeau and the CRA a check for all my back taxes within a year of me standing on stage for one of these stupid videos taking off on YouTube, my life will change, and it’s a great fucking story.

GRACE’S VOICE cuts in telepathically, teasing, sharp.
GRACE: Hot as hell.

DAVID smirks faintly. Telepathic hum grows.
DAVID (voiceover, continued): And now I kind of find it funny. I mean, there are three...

I’m going to figure out this page-turning business, Grace. Don’t like these long pauses. Three rice cookers on a kitchen counter. Can’t they share one? A big one, a Canadian symbolic melting pot, so to speak. Rice maggots are grains of food, cooked or uncooked, found on the floor, in the sink, or any place you’d rather not see a maggot. For a split second, when my brain sees a round grain of rice on the ground, it says maggot to me.

CROWD NOISES fade in telepathically. DAVID’S smirk binds. Fade out.

SCENE: STREET CORNER REVISIT, EXTERIOR, URBAN STREET CORNER, DAY
On screen: June 14th, 2016. A busy intersection buzzes. Cars honk, pedestrians dart. Three pretty international students, 20s—STUDENT 1, sharp; STUDENT 2, skeptical; STUDENT 3, pragmatic—cross the street, chatting fast in English and their native tongue. They reach the curb. Whoosh. Time freezes. Cars stop mid-motion. A pigeon hangs in the air. People turn to statues. The trio blinks, looks around.
STUDENTS (in unison): What the?

MORGAN FREEMAN, seventies, iconic, crisp suit, appears, hands clasped.
I guess I can’t say that word, Grace.
MORGAN: Hi, I’m Morgan Freeman.

STUDENT 1 (squinting): Who?

MORGAN pauses, incredulous.
MORGAN: Morgan Freeman, from hundreds of movies? You’ve never seen my work? Academy Award winner? Nothing?

STUDENT 2 snaps her fingers.
STUDENT 2: Wait, you were in Bruce Almighty, as God.

MORGAN (voice rising): Yes, and Heaven Almighty too. But what about The Shawshank Redemption? Driving Miss Daisy? Million Dollar Baby?

Blank stares from the students.
MORGAN throws hands up.
MORGAN: Fine. Yes, Bruce Almighty. I’m God. I’m here to grant you three wishes.

STUDENT 2 perks up.
STUDENT 2: Really?

I think this is a no, but I have to wait for the page to turn to find out.
MORGAN (sharp): No. Not really. No wishes. I’m here with instructions. Remember those people you passed on the sidewalk?

STUDENTS (in unison): Yes.

MORGAN (relieved): Okay, good. I’ve got your attention finally. What does everything have to be about Bruce fucking Almighty?

MORGAN paces, muttering, then snaps back.
MORGAN: I digress. Those two, their names are David and Iris. Sometime in the future, they’ll re-enter your lives. When they do, get as close to them as possible. Don’t mention you were here when the lights went out.

STUDENT 1: What was that?

MORGAN: Doesn’t matter. You won’t forget, will you?

STUDENTS (robotic): We won’t forget.

I’ll start pushing the next page button about halfway down the page, I think, Grace.
MORGAN: Good. Time resumes now. Go tell your friends and family about this. See who believes you. Or don’t. I don’t care. Just remember your mission.

STUDENT 3: Shouldn’t a mission have a reward?

MORGAN (flat): No. I’m God. Do as I say.

The students huddle, muttering about the deal.
MORGAN (snaps): I can read your minds, you know. This isn’t a deal. It’s an order. You live in my universe. Understand, girls?

STUDENTS (in unison, deadpan): Misogynist.

MORGAN waves it off.
MORGAN: Whatever. I’m 60 years older than you. Millions of years as God. Fine. What deal do you want?

STUDENTS (in unison): Husbands who can’t lie to us.

MORGAN grins, knowing.
MORGAN: Agreed.

Whoosh, time restarts. Cars roar, pigeon flops off. Students blink and scatter. Trains go by. Fade out.

NOTE TO DIRECTOR (Mel): Play Morgan’s Bruce Almighty meltdown big. Full tantrum, pacing, hands flailing. The students’ unison bits should feel eerie, cult-like, hinting at the bigger game.

This is so fucking long I don’t remember writing half of this shit. Act three. Well, I think we’re past act three, maybe episode six. DAVID staring into the camera with his stunning blue eyes. We’re about two-thirds through the movie. This is normally when I stop writing and start a new something-something movie idea. Yes, this one is unique. Well, not really, if you’ve seen my work online. But this one is my best, even if it’s all the other ones combined. I consider using the AI to finish the movie. It’s almost good enough, but it doesn’t have the full story to work from. Only I do, in my head. My job seems easy: remove it from my head and format it as a script. I don’t even have to format. AI can do that shit. To be fair, I figured someone, anyone, would have stood up and helped me by now. I guess nobody’s coming to save me. Then I have to finish the job myself. Maybe this is it. I’ll finish the movie here, without an ending. Leave it on a cliffhanger. What could you do? Nothing. No, I think the Kobo was locked up. Give it the old turn-it-off-and-on. This screen is way better than the Kindle was. It’s locking up bullshit, has to stop, Grace. I have to start printing this out on paper. Okay, Grace, I think I got this Kobo figured out. My EPUB file is too big, probably the graphics. So I’ll cut it down and re-upload it after I’m done. Seeing this curl leaves. I do have a workaround. I press the next page button right as the page comes up. It takes so long to get to the next page, I can just finish that first page. So it works, although I may be reading faster than normal.

I write until I’m so sick of the subject I want to puke. If I was a successful writer, my advice would be: do the same. Write until the thoughts are out of your head and onto paper, the computer, your phone, thin air, whatever. Get them out of your system, onto paper. I’m in love with a stranger, and I don’t know why. It would be a good name for a book. After a night of perfect, peaceful sleep, I wake up at sunrise to a beautiful golden light illuminating my room, a certain orange light I remember from my youth, but not seen in years or decades. I feel refreshed, not sluggish, ready to be awake, be part of society, be me or her. I nearly jump out of my bed with energy, substantial teenage energy. I make my bed. The sheets are smooth but not perfect. Time is burning. Before I head to the washroom, I stop by the mirror to brush my hair in case someone’s in the hallway. I listen. I hear no one, but as I unlock my bedroom door, I stop and wonder, will she be there? Her, in the alley. No, it’s impossible. Yes, anything is possible. Was she there yesterday? No. Tomorrow? Unlikely, but maybe. I listen again. The coast is clear. I open my door and walk to the bathroom—not through the bathroom; it’s not that big, Grace. Meeting Grace in the alley, I look through the window into the alley, and yes, she’s there. It’s her. She’s waiting for me. You look up at the window and wave, acknowledge me. My heart begins to pound. I recall a previous night. I confirm I have no hallucinogenic substances in my system. I don’t pinch myself. My entire body surrenders to what? I’m unsure. I stand at the window and stare at you. I decide I don’t care if I’m on drugs, lucid dreaming, or dead. I’m playing along. I slap my face to wake up. You’re still there. You wave again. Maybe mentally projected. Yes, I’m here. It’s me. It’s truly me. I don’t hear any mental objection. I think I’m having a heartache or panic attack. You point to your left, my right, to direct me into the washroom. I take the hint and enter. I use the bathroom window to confirm you’re still there. You are. You make a motion to wash my face. I do. The cold water wakes me up. I’m not dreaming. My dream is coming true, but I’m awake. This is real life, not some other realm. I look again. The light is amazing. You’re radiant. This is real. I realize you’re standing in the alley, and I should invite you in. But then I remember readiness in my head. I realize the shower, shade, is the correct protocol. You’re willing to wait. The vehicle pulls up in the alley. For a second, I panic, thinking you’re leaving. Instead, you get in the back seat, roll down the window, and continue to stare at me through the bathroom window. Bit of a pervert? My panic dissipates. It’s real. It’s today. I have time to shower. Don’t panic. Try and smell good. I realize I only have body wash, no shampoo or conditioner. I borrow some from my housemate. They won’t notice. They use the non-Dollar Store brands, so I’ll smell good. Before I take my clothes off, I close the blinds in the washroom. I take one last peek. You’re looking at your phone in the back of the house. You wave. I enter the shower and throw up violently, but nothing comes out. I feel sick, ill, and drop to my knees. I dry heave in the shower until I begin to cry in pain or relief or both. I experience every emotion and no emotion simultaneously. As long as every train passing by is an applause break, I’m good. I recover. Seconds later, I erupt in chills. I’m freezing. I turn the shower unbearably hot to recover. I balance out. I breathe. I take deep breaths. I want to exit the shower and check you’re still there. I can’t. Instead, I breathe. It’s over. I’m ready. I shower like normal, no need for anything special, other than the stolen conditioner. I know my hair is a mess, but you insist on, as is. I return to my room, pick up my favorite t-shirt and jeans, and get ready. It’s just another day. Nothing special, I say to myself. I panic. Are you still in the alley? I stick my head out the window. Yes, you are there. You wave to me again. I nod to acknowledge. I place the cash from my broken hand into my backpack. If today is the day, I may be on stage in a few hours. I have no idea how this would work into the movie idea. I guess this could be the end. We’re at the end of the first series. I have everything I need. I peek out the window, and you’re still there. I’m not crazy. Well, not about this. I unplug everything in my room except the fridge. I may not be back for a while. I normally leave the window open. Today, I close and lock it. I may not be back for a while. I put my recycling in the bin and my pizza tray in the fridge. No other open food sources in the room. It doesn’t matter if I return today or ever. I consider leaving the door unlocked and the keys on the bed, but I’m not sure. Maybe we’ll be forced to live here, not your place. I bring my keys, lock my door, and leave. I leave the house, walk up to the car, and enter opposite you. You smile, hold out a hand, and help me into the vehicle like an old man.

SCENE: INTERIOR, VEHICLE, DAY
Black plexiglass separates the front and back seats. You whisper in my ear, we are alone. We embrace, cry, like old friends or long-lost lovers. We release our emotions. We wait for each of us to calm. We watch each other’s eyes. We laugh. Formalities and milestones.
YOU: Where to? It’s your perfect day.
ME: Is everything in place?
YOU: Yes.

You tap on the divider. We receive two taps in return.
ME: Are you hungry?
YOU: No, but there will be food at their office.

It’s a transcript of a transcript that I’m reading, so this isn’t the original, Grace. Not that it matters. We arrive at a publisher’s office. Your, our book is on display in the boardroom. It’s titled You and Me. I’m not in agreement with the title. I don’t introduce myself. Everyone knows who I am, who you are, who we are.
ME: Is everything ready?
CEO OF THE PUBLISHING COMPANY: Yes. Certified check for $2 million as an advance in royalties and $100,000 cash, all $50 bills.
ME AND YOU (together): Thank you.
CEO: Sign here, Mr. Joseph.
ME: David. Thank you.
CEO: Are you ready?

It’s too late to go back to the original.
WE: Yes.

At the end of the boardroom table sit two laptops, mirrored. We sit beside each other and take turns writing the first chapter of a book. Two hours later, it’s done. We leave, head for destination number two, the license bureau.
YOU: Are you sure?
ME: Are you?

We don’t talk. We hold hands. They shake. It says you food me. I can’t, you me neither, so I’m guessing that’s a transcription error, Grace. We arrive at the bureau and head to the marriage license line. We wait. Your parents arrive. They witness the license and enter the wedding. We’re called to the desk. I put in earplugs as you explain to the clerk. I have hypersensitive hearing. In reality, I don’t want to see your name on the marriage license. We’re here. When they ask us to swear our information is correct, we all sign our licenses. I sign first. I see no names. In the parking lot of the license bureau, a friend of yours marries us. She signs and notarizes the license. We are married. We return the document to the bureau, where they process it. We are officially married and receive a temporary certificate. I don’t look at it. Your parents and friends hug you before we return to the car. I shake their hands.

We are driven to the bank. We take a photo of us holding the check. We open a joint account and deposit the two million certified cheque. We are given debit/credit cards with access to the full amount and an old-fashioned cheque book. We leave the bank.
YOU: Hungry?
ME: Yes.

We stop at Starbucks for coffee and breakfast sandwiches. We don’t talk at Starbucks. We just eat and stare back and forth. This is the most natural day in the world, normal. Our next stop is Revenue Canada. We arrive.
ME: Cash or cheque?
YOU: Don’t be a dick with the cash. Give me a cheque.

We wait in line to pay my tax bill. We pay my bill. You take a photo of me holding the cheque. I’m smiling. I’m smiling. You set the photo as your background and ask,
YOU: Do you want to buy a phone?
ME: Do I need one?
YOU: No.

We both say, “Next stop,” in unison. Or, in unison, we say, “Next stop.” I guess I’m doing a correction of the correction. This is one way to get me to edit crazy, just keep reading every version. Or you could just come do it for me and save me a whole lot of time. We save you time too, Grace. We arrive at the disability offices and wait in line. When we are served, I tell them I don’t need it anymore and to submit the bill for whatever I’ve received in the past. They agree. As we leave the office, I say, “Passports.”
YOU: Passport? I already have mine.

I squeeze your hand tightly as we ride in the back of the car. I apply for a passport. Technically, Grace, the passport office and the tax office are the same place, but either here nor there, it still never fucking happened. Next, we go to the airport. We pick up my child. We laugh. We cry. We reunite. We stop at the SPCA and play with kittens and teach our pets for an hour. We take a detour to my doctor’s office without an appointment. We wait until he comes out for his next patient, and I interrupt him. I show him the photo on your phone of you and I holding the check and zoom in on the amount.
ME: I told you so, doc.

We walk away without his response. As I leave, you mouth, “I’m sorry,” to the doctor.
ME: Don’t apologize for me. It’s a full-time job.

YOU hold onto my arm.
YOU: Feel better?
ME: Much.
YOU: Keep going.
ME: Yes.

We arrive at a hair salon, and I get a haircut. I look 10 years younger and a million times better. I’m gorgeous. We stop by the dentist in the same strip mall and convince him to give me a quick teeth cleaning/whitening. They do. My breath smells better, and my teeth are beaming. There’s a problem with this page being so slow to turn, you don’t know if I’ve pressed the button or not. Or I don’t know if I’ve pressed the button or not. You definitely don’t know. I don’t think I have. We retreat to the bathroom. You missed a page. Our next stop is a lawyer’s office. They set up a charity for us. We’re the co-founders. Our friends, our family, are board members. We sign papers and write a check to the charity for one million dollars. We name the charity The Griggs Foundation. Obviously a typo.

SCENE: COMEDY CLUB TRIUMPH, INTERIOR, HOTEL RESTAURANT, NIGHT
We arrive at the hotel where my offspring is staying and meet in the restaurant with your parents and additional friends and family at your discretion. Everyone eats, drinks, and is merry. Remind me, time to sign up. We head to the comedy club in the hotel. It’s called Gushers. I sign up for the open mic.
YOU take your hot pink sweater out of your purse and hand it to me.

I retreat to the bathroom, put it on, and my hand cast to prepare for my act. I use my hoodie to cover everything up, a little picnic swine, just a broken hand. I get up, my heart races, and I feel the embarrassment rising. I’m wearing a sparkly pink sweater. I’m either a genius or an idiot. On the other hand, so far, this has been the most interesting day of my life. So far, this has been the most interesting day of my life, but the odds I’d fail now? This entire day has been a win. It took too fucking long, but it’s been a win. I kill. I absolutely kill for three minutes. I wait for the light, but it remains off. I continue. Five minutes. Seven minutes. Nine. Then the light finally comes on. I’m done. I’m happy. It’s over. I’m out of material anyway. I give you 10 minutes in my sleep, Grace. Easily got 30 minutes on the washroom now. Here’s my evil genius plan. I’ve discovered something grosser than hair in a shower, and that’s the belly button lint that comes out of my fat hairy belly button. Every time it’s covered with belly hair, and when it hits the fucking trains—goddammit, Grace, I just wanna roll. When that black lint hits the floor of the shower, it looks like some weird creature, part spider with fucked-up legs but part beetle-ish. It’s really quite disgusting, but it doesn’t bother me because I know what it is. My plan was to leave that in the end of the shower of every shower until everyone got straight there. Your friends were taping the amazing set and post it on social media.

The comedy show ends. Aftermath and giving back. You and I take a walk around the hotel block. Many homeless people exist. We hand out envelopes of money to any we come across. We don’t talk or ask questions unless they communicate with us first. We say thank you and are on our way. We don’t care what they use the money for. It’s theirs now, their choice. We return to the hotel, say goodbye to everyone, and head home, to your place or mine. It doesn’t matter which. We don’t stay at the hotel. We don’t need luxury. I’m going to change that one. I wouldn’t mind staying at the hotel. It’s been a while since I’ve stayed at a hotel. If you just gave out a bunch of money, I don’t think it would be such a bad thing, Grace. On the way home, your phone lights up with DM requests for me to perform at different comedy clubs around the world. When we arrive at home, we relax and prepare for bed. We are sent links from volunteers who work for our charity, handing out supplies and helping the homeless in a variety of ways. They send us their success stories, some written, some videos, some audio. We spend an hour listening to the stories. We change clothes and prepare for our first night together. We spend our first night together. In the morning, we check the charity’s bank account. It’s empty. We smile. We’ve done it. A thousand volunteers from our charity handed over a thousand dollars to one thousand homeless people.
YOU: Ready to write chapter two?

I kiss you. You have horrible morning breath.
ME: Yes. And by the way, what’s your last name?
YOU: My name is...

I reply, “I love you.” It’s a good place to stop for today, Grace. Only 50 minutes, but who gives a fuck. I’m not going to figure out this EPUB file size bullshit. So, while I enjoy reading that, these page breaks’ pauses are annoying as fuck. I wrote some funny stuff that I would put up in Dear Grace, Grace. So, after I’ve done this movie idea, I’ll go through that shit, extract the funny parts, like grandpa-ism. Grandpa-ism is a condition I’m going to suggest the DS-75 add. It’s where old guys like me don’t have any grandkids and they want some, but for whatever reason, they want their own, so they’re forced by nature—not even society, forced by nature—to find a wife of suitable age to provide the grandpa with children. They’re not grandchildren, but they’re children. It’s actually even more work because you have to do everything, whereas a grandchild, you just have to do the fun bits, like take him to the park once a day, sit on a bench while the baby sleeps in a carriage. I really should write an article about that guy. He’s got to be the most consistent grandpa ever. Every day at this park, he’s there for at least two hours. Every time I walk by, that baby’s sound asleep. Probably giving him opium. Sometimes I do see him rocking the carriage with his foot. I don’t know if their parents have other kids, if that’s their only kid. If that’s their first kid, that’s a nice break every day. Then at least they know they can get two hours of nap. But I won’t have that luck. Tons new rugrats, because now I’ve proven scientifically that there’s a medical condition called grandpa-ism, which just forces me and other people like me to be attracted to females of suitable age to bear children without harming their body or the child’s body. And if that just happens to be your age, Grace, then so be it. It’s not like I really cared if I felt like justifying it before. It just seems more obvious now because of grandpa-ism. Probably a chemical imbalance. That’s probably the pill I can take that stops me from thinking of fun things to do with kids, like taking them to the water park, splash pool, I guess it is. I think this train sounds just as loud as the one in my backyard, but it’s only about 30 feet further away. Alright, Grace, don’t bore your ear off anymore. If I make it through today, I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Grace.