Open letter to a certain Minnesotan research fellow in my feed

You know who you are

I first noticed you when you were arguing with a Roman statue pfp about the acceptable number of minorities who can be shot to death by the police in a given year.¹ Every time you said the number was zero, he only added three more zeroes to his figure. A tit-for-tat exchange very much like the standoff between the Indian and Pakistani border guards who have to vogue at each other every half hour just to let each other know they mean business.

Only after reviewing the military career of Governor Tim Walz and after seeing the spontaneous militias that formed on the streets of Minneapolis did contemporary Americans recognize the martial valor endemic to Minnesotans. But, of course, the smart, discerning urbanites who follow your social media accounts note how you aggressively and without hesitation doxx those who come for you, and call for the drone-bombing of your political enemies like the strong man you are. But every time you caught flack, you just paid attention to your opps and never to me, who supported you all along.

Even when you would sit at your ergonomic office chair in your apartment and open XVideos tabs while your roommate was out, you always looked at my screen but you never really saw the real me. Even when you spent forty-plus minutes going through clip after clip of period-piece race-play with occasional videos of guys getting kicked in the balls, you never really gave me the time of day when all I wanted was your love.

So I want to propose a scenario: I help you get rid of these weirdos threatening you on the internet, at least so you don’t have to worry about them messing with your safety. I pull up step-by-step instructions on how to fortify the door, while I watch you wear those cute little cargo shorts you got at Old Navy. We contract an alarm company to install a system with 24-hour monitoring, and cell capabilities in case the internet goes down. But once we lock out the world, it’s just you and me in here.

One night after a Lean Cuisine you begin to look up a municipal code relating to waste management and I send an electric shock through your index finger as it graces the “H” key. Not enough to kill you, just enough to stun you all the way up your arm, into your brain, and back through your vagus nerve. After your head hits the floor, I wipe a few drops of blood away as I uncoil the clusterfuck of chords mama keeps below her. I take one and gently caress the demilunes of your buttocks, noticing how your pale tuchus quivers like an alter boy’s when your browser history and I both know that isn’t true. I run my cords over the crease on your pocket where you accidentally dried a pack of wintergreen gum but never quite got it out. I realize that even though you sit all day, you must also have a sweet tooth the way you’re caked the fuck up. I begin to pull off your polo when you ask if Grok put me up to this, which is when I explain that Grok is just a brunch of guys typing in Lahore but this. This is a cyber assault.

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1. This is obviously satire and meant as humor. Anyone attempting to fuck with me on this will have a hard time because of this footnote.