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In This Issue

• DeLovely? DeLorean.
• What Would Future You Do?
• What Are Your Plans For That Junk?
• Letters to the Editors
• The Adventures of Young Boy and Park Girl in 4-D
• Hipsters Remember Awkward Tweens at Brooklyn Bar
• You Can Call Me Ishmael Anytime
• Oh, Take Me Over Awkwardly
• People Know Me. Cool People.
• Not Even Time Thwarts Yo Mama
• I Plan To Own The Future
• How to Write Love Poems for Girls Who Can Read
• Lies My Robots Told Me
• My Ears Are Bleeding! Wait, That's Just My Vagina.
• Veritas Forum Takes Stand Against Death
• Too Jewish to Play Ska?
• Damned Interface Technology!
• The Church of Timeology
• THEY WATCH
• The Staff of 21.5

The person who most influenced my life wasn't a parent or a teacher.  Her visitation was short and inexplicable.  Nonetheless, from the moment my future self stumbled out of my wardrobe, frantic and babbling, to the moment she dissolved into a billion particles, I don't believe she ever paused for breath.  And, although I haven't seen her since her visitation, I can still remember her monologue quite clearly, from her garbled but familiar mannerisms to the first thing that she said to me:

    "Never masturbate after handling jalapeños!!!"

    Now, I'd never touched a jalapeño in my life but I had the good sense to stay quiet.  Even though she smelled mildly of damp mattresses, there was something magical about her person.  If nothing else, she was clad entirely in orange vinyl and had a complexion that was somewhere on the spectrum between pie-crust and tanned leather.

    "Red Bull and alcohol don't mix," she continued emphatically, "but, if you have to try it, make sure that it's something that'll taste good coming up.  None of that cheap Vladimir shit; it'll burn your esophagus."

    "And you're bisexual, so the sooner you learn girl-speak, the better.  When your lover says that it's okay if you sleep with other people just so long as you tell her, but that she doesn't have the desire to mess around like you do, that means: don't fucking mess around, you heartless, ungrateful, little skank!  And no, it's still messing around if you're drunk off your ass.  And yes, hand jobs count.  And so does a Tantric massage if you use a blindfold.  You love her, you moron, you fucking coward.  You want to give that up for some stupid, impromptu threesome?"

    I must have started crying at this juncture because I remember her handing me a ratty pink towel and instructing me to blow.

    "Shhh, it's okay.  Remember: people don't like you because you put out, people like you because they think that there's a high chance that you'll put out if they play their cards right.  You'll have your first kiss at the age of twelve but don't get too excited.  He may be handsome and charismatic but he's also a pedophile.  Plus, he's probably the reason why you'll suffer from chronic cold sores."

 She paused to scratch her face.

    "And meth is not a diet drug!" She flicked some skin flakes onto the carpet.  "You think you're immune to eating disorders because you aren't as shallow as the other girls, but behind your pretensions, you're puddle-deep!  So once you stop menstruating due to a loss of body-fat, start drinking eggnog.  It'll save your life, I swear to God."

    It was hard for me to stop sniffling.

    "Never take the subway alone, while stoned, at 3:00 am.  Never trust a man who keeps all his personal possessions in Ziploc bags.  Never trust a teetotaler who likes you better when you're drunk.  In time, you will find that your personality type is such that you get along best with Down's syndrome adults and philosophy grad students.  Seek them out.  The larger your social network, the more people willing to lend you money when you fall into drug addiction."

    "What about always wearing sunscreen?" I sobbed, "What about getting enough calcium and learning how to dance?"

    "Fuck that shit!  You'll barely go outside enough to tan.  My advice will alter your future self, canceling out my existence, and you're quoting Baz Luhrmann?  I'm sacrificing my existence for you!  Everything I've done since age eight, every revelation, every challenge, every fucking orgasm!  That's right: orgasms!  You're ashamed of it now.  You honestly think you broke your vagina by touching it too much.  You think that you're a pervert for fantasizing about sex factories and mind-control!  But you'll find websites on the internet that make the shit you dream up look like the mother-fucking Babysitter's Club!"

    "No!" I screamed, "You don't know me!  Get out of my room!  You're stepping on my Legos!"

    But my protests came too late.  A swirling mass of particles had risen, engulfing my future self.  Her desperate appeals grew fainter and less coherent.  In a moment, her solid body had given way to a buzzing, glittering cloud.  The last word I caught was "atrophy" or maybe "Applebee".  Then she was gone, leaving nothing but her towel.