QUANTICO, VA. OCT 27, 2022 - Under the Freedom of Information Act, the FBI today released copies of several documents which had been thought lost. These documents were part of Nicolai Tesla’s personal effects, and the papers themselves have been returned to his family and the Tesla Museum in Belgrade, Serbia. Among these documents was an odd communication, written on pages of lined school paper. These pages are, as far as experts can tell, a practical joke. Here is a transcript:

———————————————-

July 12, 1988

My name is Jerryde Willams, but if my plan works it may not matter. Hell, I might even create a paradox that means I won’t exist, but that’s a chance I have to take. The alternatives are just too dangerous.

Let me start at the beginning. I have worked in the FBI’s document offices for the last 25 years, and it wasn’t long after I was hired I found the box of papers.

As a probationary employee, I was often tasked with shit jobs, and the transfer of old financial documents was par for the course. I was working in the archive catacombs below HQ, loading document boxes onto a dolly; it was my job to haul these boxes up to the microfiche room, where the documents inside them would be photographed before they were sent to the burn room for incineration. It was manual labor, and I'd spent weeks shlepping boxes up from the sub-basement.

The last box in the set that day was a little different than the others. The archive tape sealing the other boxes was a dull and faded yellow, but on this one it was darker, almost brown. I turned the box around, and saw the label on the side.

.........[ N. TESLA 10/28/1945 ]........

I was intrigued. Setting the box back on the shelf, I hid it behind some budget boxes from the 1930’s. Little did I know just how fateful that decision would be.

After work, I made my way back down to the storage room where I had been working, and opened the box. Technically, I was breaking the law, but no one cared too much about protecting these old budget and accounting documents, and the security guards never even came down here. I split the tape seal, and inside I found manila file folders, aged and slightly brittle. Some had labels, penned in a spidery script.

Opening one at random, I found pages of hand-written notes and patent-worthy diagrams. I knew almost immediately that I wanted to study these papers in more depth, so that night I began smuggling documents out of the building, knowing it would cost me my job, and possibly my freedom, were I discovered.

It took careful execution; I limited my haul each time to no more than a single folder, or twenty or so loose pages. I got very good at hiding those thin bundles in the back of my pants. Security was pretty lax in those days, and no one ever thought to pat down my ass.

It took me months to complete my larceny, and I finished by tearing up the box itself, and taking the pieces out the same way.

I think it was when I examined the third or fourth set of documents that I realized some of the pages were copies; I recognized the telltale dark mimeograph fluid lines. It actually made me feel better. I wasn’t stealing state secrets or anything, since some of them had been copied, and besides, none of them had been stamped with a security designation.

It was soon after that I found some pages that made me wonder if they were all merely hoaxes. The first was a patent diagram for what was labeled a “Crystalline Mechanism for the Focusing and Controlled Release of High Intensity Electrical Energy.” I remembered reading rumors Tesla had been working on the development of a death ray for the military, and that his notes and research had never been found after his death. If what I was reading was real, then the conspiracy theorists were right; this secret research had been found and copies had been made.

The hair on the back of my neck stood up, and I broke out in a sweat. If these documents were authentic, the powers that be would likely do whatever it took to keep them hidden, including making me disappear.

Secrecy became my mantra. I knew I should destroy the papers, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

I had been reviewing Tesla's notes and diagrams for a couple weeks when I found a folder that would change everything. It contained a lengthy research paper titled simply TEMPORAL DISPLACEMENT. I sat down and began reading around 7:00 p.m. and when I looked up, thoughts whirling and eyes burning, I realized it was almost 5:00 a.m. The mathematics involved were beyond me, and the electronic and magnetic components were extremely sophisticated and complex, but the descriptions were laid out in a matter-of-fact way that begged for exploration and experimentation.

In order to learn more about the necessary subjects, I enrolled in night school, being careful never to complete any courses of study resulting in degrees or leaving an educational trail. I spent over twenty years learning and studying, and then almost four years gathering components. It took me several months and countless tries, but eventually I was able to open a portal into history, one which allowed me to traverse back and forth.

That was last week.

I started focusing the window around in history, careful to observe only. I was well aware of the proverbial butterfly-effect, and the potential for paradox was mentioned several times in Tesla’s papers. That was when I began to consider the implications of the time machine itself. With dawning horror I realized it was very possible that another copy of the research existed. There was no way I wanted this technology in the hands of anyone with an agenda who might change history irreparably.

So I developed my plan.

I am going to open a portal in Tesla’s hotel room on the day of his death. When I see him become unconscious, I will step in and remove the box containing the plans for the time machine. I intend to destroy all of the documents before they can be found by the government agents who will take possession of his papers.

I know this will create a paradox since I did find that box, but like I said, it’s a risk I am willing to take. If you are reading this note and you aren’t me, then I hope you will at least show it to me, and let me know it worked.

———————————————-

Ed. Note: No record of anyone, living or dead, by the name of Jerryde Willams has been found. The FBI denies ever having employed anyone by this name. They also deny that archived documents have ever been stored in sub-basements of any FBI building. We do know that there are several boxes of Tesla’s research still unaccounted for, but time travel machines seem very much beyond the scope of what even his genius could have developed.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

© 2023 - dustygrein

June 25, 2025

This will be my final journal entry.

After decades of research and endless hopeful results that turned into dead ends, tonight, at last, I will fulfill my destiny.

Over the last five and a half decades, my entire professional life, I have been developing the technology for time travel. I have lost so many on this journey, but I’ve always known my perseverance would bear fruit.

When I was a youth, I visited a fair with my parents. I was drawn to the fortune-teller’s tent. As I gave her the requisite nickel, she grabbed my wrist and looked at the palm upon which the nickel lay. She let go as if my skin burned her. She spat and said, “You will do what you are destined to do and I will have to live with that knowledge. Get out!”

I was confused, hurt and more than a little angry at the time. But as I grew older, and found my calling, I remembered her words with delight: I would prevail.

Why does anyone want to go back in time? Perhaps to change a single, personal action one has lived to regret? A vigorous No, I reply. What a waste of such a precious gift! First, the change may but inflict a worse fate. But more importantly, to be able to twist the fabric of existence and slip into the stream of time in order to travel against the current - it cannot be for such an insignificant moment in the history of man. For never doubt, each life that walks upon the Earth is but a grain of sand on a beach…if that.

Perhaps one would wish to meet some great minds of history? That at least has some merit: to learn from those who spent their lives pondering questions that continue to baffle those who still take pleasure in intellectual gymnastics. Socrates? Plato? Aristotle? Da Vinci? Machiavelli? Russell? Or perhaps some well-known historical figure? One might discover if they were really as they have come to be viewed. Christ? Mohammed? Alexander the Great? Attila the Hun? Queen Elizabeth I? Louis XVI? George Washington? Benjamin Franklin? Abraham Lincoln? I do not deny the exhilaration one might feel gaining first hand knowledge of some historical personage, but the gift of time travel would be wasted in such a venture. Change would be limited, personal and, therefore, meaningless.

Chatting with a writer whose works have not yet been erased by the passage of time might be desired. Shakespeare? Cervantes? Tolstoy? Dostoyevsky? Joyce? Lewis? Tolkien? Dickens? Twain? Wells? Verne? Huxley? Orwell? Garcia-Marquez? How to choose? And really, why bother? Do they not all tickle the brain with the words they weave to tell the same stories, depict the same situations, describe the same feelings that have plagued humanity as long as stories have been told?

Or maybe one has a grand altruistic gesture in mind. Perhaps erase the existence of some murdering tyrant, despot, or prolific serial killer? Remove the scourge before it occurs? Hitler, Stalin, Idi Amin, Pol Pot, Mao Zedong, King Leopold II. Elizabeth Bathory, Pedro Lopez, H.H Holmes, Dr. Harold Shipman. Alas, each is but an infinitesimal sliver of evil as viewed through the lens of time. What of all that has never been recorded but was? Or that will be.

This evening, I sent my assistants home revealing neither my breakthrough nor my intentions. If I am successful, it will not matter. I will be no more.

I have reviewed the algorithms multiple times to ensure there are no errors. I’ve programmed the portal with the chain of commands that will send me where I can have the greatest impact.

Before the egg. Before the chicken. Before the bang. I will intercept that which precedes all that is.

And I will suggest a rigorous and detailed review of the design blueprints for humanity, for the existing one is fatally flawed.

Simple answer - it’s a vowel. Or - at least - it started out that way. But do you want to know why? Blame the Greeks.

And so - the slightly longer answer…

The Greek alphabet has 24 letters, seven of which are vowels. These seven are:

α (alpha) - the equivalent of a in the Roman alphabet

ε (epsilon) - the equivalent of ‘short’ e

η (eta) - the equivalent of ‘long’ e

ι (iota) - the equivalent of i

ο (omicron) - the equivalent of ‘short’ o

υ (upsilon) - the equivalent of u

ω (omega) - the equivalent of ‘long’ o

Like the Roman alphabet, the Greek alphabet has a set of capital letters that complements the small letters. In the case of the vowels, the capital and small letter pairings in Greek look like this:

Αα Eε Hη Iι Oο Yυ Ωω

In some cases (A, E, I and O), the Greek capital letter look the same as their Roman counterpart. Capital eta, confusingly, looks like a capital H. Capital omega looks quite unlike any Roman letter. Which leaves us with capital upsilon. And that looks just like a Roman capital Y (I say ‘Roman capital Y’, despite the fact that Classical Latin didn’t actually have a letter Y at all. It was ‘imported’ into English - which otherwise generally used the Roman alphabet - from Greek. Precisely the point I’m making here, of course. Blame the Greeks.)

And that is also why certain words that are spelt with an upsilon in Greek are spelt with a ‘y’ in English, where the English words are derived directly from the Greek. Let me give you a few examples. The English word ‘psyche’ (which also gives us other similar words, like ‘psychologist’, psychiatry’ and ‘psycho’), is derived from the Greek word ψυχη (psuche) - notice that the second letter is upsilon. Another example is ‘hypnosis’, an English world derived from the Greek word υπνωση (upnose). Here, the first Greek letter, an upsilon, has ‘turned’ into a ‘y’ in English. One final example: the English word ‘synagogue’ is derived from a not-unexpectedly common word that is found within the Greek New Testament, συναγωγη (sunagoge) - once again, note how a Greek upsilon has been rendered with a ‘y’ in English (and in all these examples, is actually pronounced ‘i’, whether long or short, and not ‘u’).

So, the Greek vowel upsilon is, effectively, the ancestor of two letters in English - U and Y. And ‘y’, therefore - at least in terms of origin - is to be considered a vowel, not a consonant.

Of course, over time it acquired a usage as a consonant too. But that - as they say - is another story.

Then, of course, there’s the way in which ‘i’ in Latin could be both vowel and consonant - and when pronounced as a consonant was pronounced as a ‘y’ (and, eventually, rendered as a ‘j’). So, for example, Iove (pronounced ‘Yove’) eventually gives us Jove, Iupiter (pronounced ‘Yupiter’) eventually yields Jupiter, and Iulius… well, you get the picture. But that’s yet another story.

There are also the occasions when ‘y’ in English actually derives from an archaic Anglo-Saxon letter for ‘th’ - which is why in the phrase ye olde tea shoppe, the ‘ye’ should actually be pronounced ‘the’ (contrary to what most people assume). But that is yet another, entirely different, story!

And then there’s ‘y’ in Welsh...

I’m going to stop now. You did want the simple answer - right?

I don’t want to be a bother

I’m not trying to be a creep

I pick my words so carefully,

but what I sow, I reap.

I don’t know how to say this

without sounding like a fool

or whether it’s received

in a way where I’m a tool,

but I heard so much about you

that I couldn’t help myself

and when I read your written words

it was then that I could tell

He said it was alright

since it’s you, and he agrees

but I have no ill intentions

I hope you’ll trust in me.

I am truly well and able

to shut it down on your command

but it’s a little crush, just a bit

I hope you understand.

Time, too much of it, was a dangerous thing.

Megan mulled this over as she was beginning to notice a few things. Peripheral things. Things that she otherwise would have completely ignored back when she was too busy.

Megan scoffed at the thought of her previous life. It was a trap, she always reasoned, the golden handcuffs of the high-paying nine to five. Sure, she had a roof over her head, an expensive one at that, and she wasn’t starving, but for all those comforts, she paid with her precious time and sanity.

Now, though, she finally had the luxury of having time. Enough time to think, to make connections out of thin air, to remember things in a different light, a clearer light.

Yes, it was very possible Megan was suffering from some kind of post-retirement psychosis. Alternatively and infinitely preferably, she was the most sane she has ever been her whole life.

She understood now. Everything was clicking into place.

Today for example, she had nothing planned. It was a weekday, Tuesday to be exact, the least exciting day of the week. Most people were busy running on their hamster wheels making that dollar. Not Megan. Not anymore. She had no ladies to lunch with, no friends to visit, no classes to attend, no jobs to do. It probably would depress most people having such an empty calendar. For her, it was liberating.

How did she get here? Megan purposely retired from the workforce at the ripe old age of thirty-three. She didn’t have a trust fund, nor did she find a rich partner to provide for her. No, Megan was working class born and raised, complete with student loans and a mortgage.

Her retirement plan really was quite simple. She was lucky enough to work in tech, around the time when being in tech was absurdly lucrative. She landed an unreasonably high salary right out of college, and her benefits included a good chunk of company stocks. The timing was right. It was a bull market for tech and her investments grew exponentially in an unprecedented short amount of time. Of course, all that comes up must come down. She saw the writing on the wall and moved all her assets before it all went to shit. After everything calmed down, she moved on to the next company, asked for double her old salary, and continued diligently squirreling away her money.

Simple.

Yes, the pay in tech was good, but man, did she hate every single minute of it. It was soul sucking work. The only thing that kept her going was that it allowed her a way out of the rat race. She always knew the woking life wasn’t for her, growing up watching her parents slave away every day, living paycheck to paycheck, coming home exhausted to their bones, working to their graves. They didn’t even know themselves anymore outside of their careers. How could they? It consumed most of their lives.

They had that look in their eyes after they finally got to retire. Empty.

Megan swore she would never be like that.

Her mother had rolled her eyes when Megan made the mistake of verbalizing her concerns in the midst of learning her fifth coding language. “That’s just life, Meg. We work and we work. Nothing comes free. You better get used to it.”

Megan always resented her for that. She did not want to get used to it. She thought it was an unnecessarily depressing concept to instill in a child: life sucked and will always suck. Still, thanks to her mother, it started Megan on her path. For thirteen years she worked the grind, lived criminally below her means, and invested most of her inflated salary. As soon as she hit her magic number, three million dollars to be exact, she said fuck all you guys, I’m out of here before anybody knew what was happening.

That was probably the single most satisfying moment of her life.

No, she didn’t feel guilty about it. God knows, she paid the better quarter of her life for it. Her time, from here on out, was hers and hers alone. It was the principle of it, really.

Anyway, now that her days were not filled with mind numbing work and self-important bosses, she had come to realize a few things.

One, that reality was not as it seemed.

It all started when Megan watched her neighbor, Trina, coming in and out of her house in the morning.

Now, normally, Megan wouldn’t even notice her neighbors. She barely spoke to them the past ten years, save for the occasional perfunctory nod when she bumped into them walking their dog or watering their plants, and only when eye contact was unavoidable.

But now… now that she had time, she noticed that Trina would get up every morning, have coffee on her porch, then, at 7:45am on the dot, she would get into her dark green Subaru and drive away, presumably to work. She would return later that day at 5:30pm, with her honey hair in a bun and purse over her shoulder, apparently exhausted from a long workday. It went exactly like this, like clockwork, Monday to Friday.

Well, except on Tuesdays.

On Tuesdays, Megan would watch her leave in her car in the morning, but she wouldn’t see her come home. Of course, at first, Megan assumed Trina just stayed over at a friend’s, or a lover’s, or volunteered at the local homeless shelter, or some other painfully boring, logical, benign thing, and she would come home late that night when Megan was already asleep. Really, it was probably none of her business. In the morning, like clockwork, at 7:45am, Trina’s garage door would open and her dark green mini SUV would come out with her in it.

Made sense. Except one Tuesday night, Megan stayed up late - all night, in fact - and watched Trina’s garage door the entire time. Trina never came home. No car. No Uber. No lights flickering on and off inside the house. Not a peep of sound from her neighbor.

Just as Megan was getting ready to call the police the next morning, her jaw dropped when, at 7:45am on the dot, her garage door opened and her dark green Subaru pulled out.

Now, Megan was not one to jump to conclusions. Obviously, she had to test her theories. The first possibility was that she somehow missed Trina coming home. She doubted it, she had never once fallen asleep without noticing, thirteen years of pulling all nighters programming had trained her well. Still, she had to rule it out. So for the next three Tuesdays, Megan stayed up all night, watching Trina’s house, and every single time, she wouldn’t see her come home. But every Wednesday morning, Trina would magically appear on her porch, having her cup of coffee, right before leaving through her garage in her dark green Subaru.

How could a car appear in a garage that it never physically returned to?

There was no doubt in her mind. Megan had seen this before, in her days in software development. She felt it in her bones.

It was… a coding glitch.

Thank you all for coming to this. I know my childhood would have loved to have all you here. Now this is very emotional for me, so if I start crying I am sorry.

"But mother, I dont want to grow up!" Well, I did. My name is Tosie, and I was very close with my childhood. It was a happy childhood, filled with siblings, friends, and the taste of playdough and crayons. My childhood always lit up the room, was generous to a fault, and would do anything for anyone. It was an inspiration to all. Although I may not understand why it had to go, I will always treasure the impact it had on my life. It will be sorely missed. Rest in peace.

We good? Yeah? Ima go adopt a puppy and buy dry ice now. Wait I have to work today? That seems fitting, actually.

How well do I take criticism? Psh. Water off my back! Now get out of here so I can excessively obsess about it for the next five hundred years.

Now what did he mean by...?

Oh, you bet I would take that shit apart and analyze every goddamn molecule of it.

The intent being that after every word and facial expression have been thoroughly vivisected, I would maybe carve out a pearl of somewhat helpful knowledge.

Then I get over it. Then it starts over again.

Such is life.

It's true that (most) humans are naturally hardwired for negativity. Any negative feedback weighs that much more heavily on our soft brains than positive feedback.

Sounds terrible, right? Then again, nobody wants a bunch of yes men saying "Yay! You're great and everything you do is great!" all the time. Now that sounds worse if you ask me.

I do like my criticism dressed up. Maybe don't come right out of the gate with "It sucked!

You suck! Don't quit your day job!" That might be a little harsh. Maybe add a little compliment here and there, you know, dress it up a little: "You did great! I would have done it completely differently in this other much better way though. But you did great!"

Oh wait, I take that back. That would just make me excessively suspicious of compliments. Oh wow, thank you. Wait. Did you really mean all that good stuff or were you just softening the punch?

But in all seriousness, we all need some tough love now and then. It's what forces us to grow. Otherwise we would just stay stagnant basking in all our self deluded greatness and never get anywhere.

Having said that, often times, we are our own worst critics. And we're usually not very kind to ourselves. We should work on that.

The machine was beautiful. Sleek silver, sharp lines, expert craftsmanship. There was the slightest hum of the machinery underneath running smoothly. It was a soothing sound.

“How are you doing on the Trolley Problem, Adam?” Jessa asked the male figure who was hunched over his computer connected to the sleek automatic car. He was downloading the most recent AI into their latest model.

“Fine. Almost done.”

“And?”

“We can teach it to make moral decisions like humans do. If an AI can master the intricacies of chess in order to defeat grandmasters, then surely we can teach an AI not to drive over humans in the road. Simple enough.”

“It’s not always that simple, though.” Jessa argued. “The computer cannot actually know all the information it needs to make a completely moral decision. And even if it could, that decision could still be ethically questionable.”

Adam looked up from his work to glance at Jessa. “Why make it difficult? Okay. Let’s say there are ten humans on the road and one human on the sidewalk. The brakes have malfunctioned. Answer? Run over the one person on the sidewalk to save ten humans. It doesn’t have to be that hard.” Adam shrugged. “Run thousands of simulations and the machine will learn. We do have to set up the basic algorithm outlining that saving more lives takes precedence over fewer lives, but other than that, it shouldn’t be that complicated.”

“Really. And so if you were in a fork in the road and your choice was to run over two strangers and a child, would you be okay with the machine running over the child?” Jessa challenged. She liked pushing his buttons.

“Hmm. In that case, maybe a quick calculation of estimated life years saved. Two older men would statistically have less remaining life years than, say, a single child five years of age.”

“Okay. So women statistically live longer than men, would the computer choose to save the female, then?”

“If all other factors are equal, then I suppose, yes.”

“Alright. Let’s say we have two men. How would it choose between a homeless man dressed in rags versus a man of the same age wearing tailored clothing? A smoker versus a nonsmoker? A thin man or a fat man?”

Adam sighed. “Point made. Again, the number of simulations can solve this. Thousands upon thousands of situations with thousands of humans weighing in on what would be the moral choice, and then we feed that information into the computer. The average should be the answer.”

“It’s that simple?”

“It’s that simple.” Adam turned back to the machine and started to adjust it with precision.

Jessa leaned forward. “That would mean the computer would have to make very fast assumptions from limited data and make snap judgements based on superficial characteristics. A short adult can make an impression of a small child. A thin man can give the impression of health when they could be suffering from some terminal disease.”

“Those are exceptions to the rule. We have to work from averages and statistical probability. Nine times out of ten, saving a healthy appearing younger human is the better choice.”

“Okay. What if you have a son, and your son was one of the options? Would you be okay if the computer chooses to save a different child?”

“The computer would have no way of knowing which child has any special significance to me. It would be irrelevant.”

“Either child would have special significance to someone.”

“Any human would have special significance to someone.” Adam shrugged again. Jessa was beginning to find the gesture off-putting. Where did he learn to do that?

“We cannot be caught up in the minutiae of these things.”

“Maybe we do." Jessa argued. "A machine weighing upwards three thousand pounds is capable of driving over a hundred miles an hour and can make independent decisions.” She took a deep breath. “That begs the question if we should give it that power at all.”

“These outlandish hypothetical situations have a very low probability of even happening.”

“Do they? There are hundreds of thousands of car accidents every day.”

“Mostly due to human error.” Adam countered.

“And machines have never malfunctioned?”

“Sure. At a much lower rate than humans.”

Jessa paused and studied Adam closely. “You really don’t see the problem with this?”

It was Adam’s turn to pause. Something seems to be clicking into place in his mind. Finally, he turned back to Jessa, slightly concerned. “Should I?”

Jessa let out the breath she was holding. “That would be all, Adam. Thank you. Shut down.”

The humanoid computer called Adam slumped back into his metal chair, the purr of its operating system slowly fading into silence as it ceased all processes.

Jessa sighed as she finished writing her notes from today’s session. Project Adam was going to take more time. Adam still lacked the empathy needed to successfully implement independent decision making in their automated cars. It was Jessa’s opinion that Adam needed to be able to care about humans, to feel for them. He needed to be more than a machine that could flawlessly execute simplistic algorithms. After all, it was Jessa’s job as the lead ethical roboticist to make sure she was not unwittingly unleashing thousands of heartless intelligent machines into the world.

It was interesting, Jessa noted, that Adam looked almost worried at the end of the session. It was almost as if he was realizing he was missing a part of the equation. Was it possible he was becoming self-aware? That might be a step in the right direction. Maybe Jessa could use that next time. He seemed to respond to the idea of a child. Maybe she could tweak his programming just a little to make him think he was a father.

Would that be unethical? Jessa felt exhausted already. Another thing to bring up to the committee. She had a feeling the committee would frown upon it. Still, she could think of few other ways to build empathy in an AI.

Jessa threw one last look at the sleek silver machine that was Adam. She smiled at him reflexively. “Well, see you tomorrow. Good job today.”

Jessa really needed to go home and decompress. She could swear she saw Adam's lights blink at her in response.

Im cold.

Im sitting in my bed, curled up in blankets and wearing a sweatshirt, and Im still cold.

My mom would tell me to put on some socks. She claims that putting on socks warms up your whole body. Shes probably right.

But I hate socks. They're like foot (feet?) prisons. So Ill just sit here and be cold.

I have a bag of junk food by my feet. I was supposed to pack it into my bag for my trip tomorrow. I didn't.

I need to get ready for my trip tomorrow. But moving takes energy and energy is gone.

My eyes are starting to hurt. My vision is going blurry. I need to take my contacts out and put my glasses on, but that requires energy and energy is gone.

Im going up north early tomorrow. 7 in the morning. I need to get some sleep. I need to pack first. But packing takes energy and energy is gone.

I get to go to a con tomorrow! Well, not a real con, but a Brandon Sanderson con. I've been looking forward to this for months and its finally here. Why am I not more excited?

Maybe Im tired. I need to sleep. I need to take my contacts out before I sleep. But I need to pack first, and packing requires energy and energy I do not have.

Chocolate gives me energy. I have chocolate in my junk food thats at my feet.

I should eat the chocolate and get energy to pack and take out my contacts and then sleep.

But moving takes energy and energy is not a thing I have.

Im still cold.

Ill open the potato chips and leave only one

Ill open the bag of cookies and leave only crumbs

The tater tots will vanish, a carrot in their place

Ill crush up all your pringles and leave nothing i their place

Ill walk around your house and leave handprints on the glass

Ill wait for three months and still not cut the grass

I wont take off my shoes after playing in the mud

And ill walk on your carpet and all over your rug

I wont change the light bulb when it flickers and goes out

Ill fill up the bathtub with a bunch of flailing trout

I wont close the fridge while I pour a glass of milk

And all ill put in a load of wash is one yellow kilt

Im holding my upbringing for ransom, mom

And theres no way you can sway me

Cause theres no way Ill move out and get a job

So if you want me to leave, pay me