A Letter to My Great-Great-Grandchildren

Dear great-great-grandchildren,

How do you exist? To the best of my knowledge, and I should know since I am a female, and therefore, I’m in charge of my reproductive capabilities, I have never had a child. It is possible that there are nine months in there where I completely blacked out and don’t remember spawning, but it’s not very probable. I think I’d remember something like childbirth. I’d hope so anyway. If that’s the case though, apologize to your great-grandparent for my inadvertent abandonment of a child I didn’t know existed for me, if they’re still alive.

Perhaps after I died the world was so disconsolate by my loss that I was frozen so as to present my greatness to future generations. Perhaps I was cloned again in the future, and in that future, I stupidly decided to have children against my better judgment. That seems much more plausible than a nine-month blackout. If that’s the case, would you really be my great-great-grandchildren or would you be the descendants of the other version of me? The other me is still me – cloned grandma and I do share the same DNA, albeit with different experiences, so I suppose, technically, it’s all the same.

Anyway, I’m getting hung up on semantics. Let’s just assume that you exist somehow and that I am my own grandma, or rather, your grandma. Shudder. So, how awesome are you? You descended from my genes so you must be pretty kickass. You must be intelligent, funny, attractive, tall, well-read, creative and everything else that makes being me so terribly awesome. It’s a burden being this awesome sometimes. It can be a lot of pressure. I hope you don’t experience that as well. If you do, try to remember that being awesome is our gift to the world. It’s what we do.

Since you’re reading this, I’m assuming that the human race hasn’t imploded on itself under the weight of its own hubris and idiocy like a white dwarf star. We’re talking at least four generations, five if you include cloned grandma, so that would be, what, at least a hundred years? I hope you’re better at the maths than I am. Math is not my strong suit. Hopefully, there’s some latent mathematics gene that awakened in you. If not, maybe you have built-in brain calculators or calculator robots by now. I hope you at least have the damn Jetson’s cars or the like that take you automagically to your destination. We were promised these scientific marvels as kids and never received them. Driving sucks.

I’m off point, which is that I’m glad to see that maybe the human race has smartened up some and stopped being so damn selfish, arrogant, bigoted and greedy so that you have the chance to be alive. It’s nice to know that there’s a possibility that the human race won’t destroy itself and everything else in the process because we’re blamin’ eediots. I find that notion hard to believe from where I sit, but I suppose, if it’s possible that you exist since I never had any kids, it’s possible that humanity might not self-destruct.

I hope your life is swell. I hope that you don’t have to put up with all the crap my generation does. I hope by the time you are alive, humans realize that we’re all essentially the same, regardless of our beliefs, gender, sexual orientation or whatever other foolhardy things humans use to blindly judge each other. Remember, you are descended from me. That means you can survive anything. Don’t put up with any grief, kick ass and take names. Rock on, little ones, and keep being awesome.

Love,
G-G-Grandma

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