When I watch the sun go down on Okayama, you're fast asleep. Only when my eyelids begin to grow heavy, are you shuffling about your kitchens gathering breakfast, and getting ready for the day. I always wished that being first on the international date line granted its inhabitants uncanny powers to share the future with the rest of the following world. I'd make for the planet's most pompous and unerring meteorologist, or take my gift to the horse race track, and bet it all on every winning horse according to the previous day's newspaper. But reality. Our unfortunate friend Reality.
Dear Mr. Reality
Do you really have to be such a douchebag? Seriously. Some of us think it's a little unnecessary. And grow a fricking sense of humor already. But not a twisted one.
Your Loyal Detractor,
Dagbert
Professionally party pooping since the dawn of time. A classic spoilsport, Mr. Reality ensures that the thrill of being 13 hours ahead is hardly the bees knees--no matter what Auntie so-and-so told you. It makes scheduling phone calls a royal pain in the ass, really short aim conversations, and empty game lobbies. When I'm raring to go, everybody is just crawling out of bed, or already on their way to work. The future is a lonely place.
But there is still hope. So as the sun dips out of sight, bathing my concrete world in darkness, it rises again, on your side--to give you the exact same shot at tomorrow that I had.
Make it count. I promise I won't tell you what happens.
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