To NBC 12 Virginia Intern Danny Sheepscrote,
I implore you not to toss out this note because my life is in your hands. You’re probably wondering how I know your name. My name is Kelly Sporkula, I’m 24-years-old, and I’ve been stuck in a seemingly endless time loop repeating October 21th, 2022 for eternity. Reliving this day for what feels like the better part of the past decade, cursed to never experience Taylor Swift’s impending masterpiece. I lost the true day count years ago since nothing I say, write down, or shove inside by butthole remains when the clock strikes midnight, the exact moment the new album drops. I know this is a lot to take in, but I need you to stick with me, because you’re my last hope to hear the songbird of our generation speak to my soul.
It may feel like a fresh day to you, but I’ve done this day so many times that am the low-key god of October 21st. I know the backstories of everyone in town. Dale Undine, the town preacher, is a closeted atheist who told me that he only, “participates in the whole God thing because his parents are still alive.” Catherine Lurch, the lady who runs the corner store, hold Iguana death-matches in the fighting pit beneath her store every Tuesday & Thursday. Talia Yamslut, goody-two-shoes, PTA president, mother of three, actually only has two kids. She pretends to be the third by walking on her knees, putting shoes on those knees, and wearing dresses to hide her trailing calves & feet as she lives out her dream of redoing middle school again. I also have a list of about 45 people who have straight up admitted to me that they’re pedophiles. A list I’m happy to share with anyone who is willing to help me out.
Not only do I know people’s histories, I know everything that everyone is going to do today. Mrs. Peeples, my next door neighbor, has a chlamydia-induced heart attack while flipping an extra-large pancake at 9:48am. Police won’t show up in time to save her, but they do find her son, Peter laughing. He thinks it’s an act, since she is a bit of a show-off, and because of that he spends the night in jail, where he’s forced to lick the cell bars for the amusement of his fellow incarcerated. Tyler Noel gets his shot on Wheel of Fortune tonight, but loses when he mispronounces the final answer ‘Scarface’ as ‘Scurfass,’ leading Pat Sajak to ask if Tyler is a Muppet. I also know that there’s a 15-year-old boy named Quinten Chartruce who decides today is the day he’s going to stand up to his bullies by shooting them at school. Problem being, unbeknownst to Quinten, the school gave everyone the day off because of teacher workshops, so this little guy decides to fire his guns off randomly in frustration. One of those bullets ricochets off a photo of the team’s pickle ball championship roster and paralyzes Quinten from the knees down. I used to intervene before the paralysis but stopped after a couple hundred times because no matter how hard I tried, he doesn’t drop his anger. Plus the noise he makes when the bullet hits him is admittedly pretty funny. I know that probably sounds a bit heartless, but he screams, “meowth,” which I’m pretty sure is a Pokemon.
It’s how I know your name, Danny. I know everything about you. Hell, we’ve even dated a few times, which is why it’s wild that it took this long for me to realize you could be the conduit for my survival. I just kind of forgot about you because our dates always ended with you blithering on about composting and your parrot, Jeremiah. To prove I’m not lying, here are some facts about you that you told me under intimate coercion:
- You don’t actually love your parents. You just love that they pay for your apartment and give you unconditional love and support. But you don’t think you could ever love them back because they’re, “too available.”
- You dislike the Spice Girls because you’re allergic to most spices and despite people explaining to you that food garnishes have no role in their act, you refuse to give in.
- You once forced your Iguana to lick your penis and when it died the next day, you asked the vet if it’s possible for lizards to die from oral gonorrhea.
- Your middle name was given to honor your great-grandfather, who was a concentration camp guard.
- You prefer using double-sided tape because it tastes better
- You once convinced a friend to eat bleach because he made fun of the Cincinnati Bengals
- You’ve swallowed every piece of gum you’ve ever eaten
Point being, I’m omniscient in this town. I know all, see all, and control all, but it brings me absolutely zero joy. I’ve known everything about everyone for so long that I’ve gone through several suicide stretches, until even that became boring. Rather than bore you with the full list of ways I’ve taken my life, I’ll just say that taking a bullet to save Michelle Obama as she walked past a gang of police officers while wearing a hoodie, feels the exact same as death by drawing the prophet Muhammed. To me, both result in waking up to my Wisconsinite roommate moaning as he finishes into our toilet to an explicit video titled, “Trannysaurus Sex Takes Sebastian’s Comet To Dickstinction.” There’s no avoiding it, no matter how many crossbow bolts I take to the chest. At the very least, this has led to me discover a love for transcendental meditation and hot yoga, but I emerge the next morning just as clouded & tight.
Which is why I need your help. I’m 60% certain this came as a result of me telling an old woman in a wilderness shack that my only wish in life was to have more time to listen to Taylor Swift, so I could learn the magic of breakup-induced enlightenment. I said it as a joke, but she spit fresh rat blood in my face and started speaking what I initially believed to be Swedish, but I have come to understand as pagan-Latin. When I went to find the woman again, in the hopes of reversing this curse, I found only a note with a middle finger drawn on it. The only thing that’s kept me partially sane has been the hope that one day I’ll get to hear Taylor’s new album, Midnights. I need to get out of this before I finally grow tired of Taylor’s old stuff, a point which I’m admittedly close to. There’s only so many times a girl can go through an entire relationship in a day, just to truly feel what Taylor is singing about. I tried to become my own generational artist, but I couldn’t ever remember where in songs I left off the day prior, plus my voice has been described as that of a, “crow with pneumonia.”
At this point, you’re probably asking, why me? Why am I burdened with the knowledge of this person’s prison of the infinite? Well buddy, it’s because you’re my last shot at getting out of this. I need you to convince your producers to run a segment about me in the hopes of generating interest with any local time scientists. Without their help, I’m doomed. I just need one clock-fetish nerd to reach out who could do that type of math that’s so high level all of the numbers are letters. I tried to become an expert myself, but I found I’m physically incapable of searching Wikipedia without falling down a rabbit hole that leads me to random articles about the likes of Tyra Banks, dinosaur bones, or onion scents.
You must help me, Danny. I need to experience Taylor’s latest album. Run the story. Forward me the scientist if one reaches out to the station. If you don’t, I’ll tell you parents about the Iguana and the whole, “not loving them,” thing. You’re my last hope.
