Honestly, I don’t know to whom this letter is directed. God? Harvard? (I’m taking a deep, strengthening breath here) Will Hunting himself? My employer-provided therapist told me to do this, and the university committee says to do whatever she says.
For many years now, I have taken my kids on ski trips several times a year. They still protest, saying skiing is okay, but we don’t need to go every time I have weekend custody. They’ll appreciate it one day when they have kids of their own and relentlessly take them on ski trips.
The part they complain about most is how long it takes to actually reach the resort, because I need to stop at every fast-food drive-thru we pass, where I always order fries. Just fries. No burgers, no drinks, fries. And I always pay close attention to the person serving said fries because I know—I don’t think, I know—that eventually it will be Will Hunting and my prophecy will be fulfilled. I cannot be wrong about that. Because if I am wrong about that, I could be wrong about anything. Or everything. And then, am I even alive? Was I ever?