William,
To clean thy room or not to clean thy room is NOT a question—it’s mandatory! Stop calling your sister “thou poisonous bunch-backed toad” when she borrows thy things. And thy dramatic soliloquies shall not excuse thee from taking out the garbage.
Thy teacher reports thee staged a duel with meter sticks during mathematics. “Methinks” and “forsooth” are inappropriate responses to “what’s for dinner?”
Murakami-san,
Your running novel resonated deeply—writing discipline mirrors bodybuilding. People see only results, never thousands of solitary hours. As you wrote, “Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.”
Our paths aren’t so different. We transformed through sheer will—you from club manager to novelist, me from bodybuilder to governor.
Marty sweetie,
Take down those DeLorean posters—you’ve missed the bus daydreaming about flux capacitors. Stop telling teachers homework “isn’t due for 30 years.”
No skateboarding behind cars! Your “temporal experiments” are dangerous, and puffy vests aren’t invincible.
Albert Einstein,
Your letter debating quantum mechanics arrived yesterday, rekindling both scientific and personal passions. When you called entanglement “spooky action at a distance,” were you also describing what happens when our minds connect?
Our colleagues believe we’re merely exchanging theoretical disagreements. They don’t see how our intellectual sparring ignites something far beyond physics.
Taylor Swift,
Thy public image of gentle innocence doth disguise a mind as quick and biting as my own. Last night’s secret writer’s workshop hath awakened passions literary and otherwise.
Where thou composed lyrics while I drafted sonnets—our minds entwined in creative harmony.
Mr. Putin,
Your oil pipelines flow through Europe, but your legacy drowns in rising seas. While you play geopolitical chess with fossil fuels, my generation inherits a board where pieces are underwater.
Nature doesn’t negotiate, and physics doesn’t care about elections.
Hey Mario,
My DeLorean’s flux capacitor blinks red making “wah-wah” sounds (Doc’s MIA). Plus, a spiky fire-breathing turtle keeps finding me even at 88 mph! Your pipe expertise is needed.
Since you travel between locations and handle angry turtles daily, could your plumbing skills fix my temporal issues? Is jumping on his head REALLY the best strategy?
Jobs-san,
Your iPad has become a tool for my animators (ironic that something I resisted now preserves our traditions). Hand-drawn animation contains humanity—imperfections that breathe life. Your devices capture this spirit.
AI animation troubles me deeply. Can algorithms understand why a lonely child gazing at clouds matters? Mathematics cannot capture a leaf’s trembling.
Donald,
Your orange complexion shines like Siberian sunset. Your hair defies both gravity and explanation—much like my election results. When you complain about witch hunts, I feel seen (I’ve disappeared several witches).
Imagine our collaboration—your buildings, my annexations. We’re not so different—both strong men, deeply misunderstood.