If you are an interstellar traveler for long enough, you will want to have sex with an alien.

Even if you usually have the abundance of willpower or dearth of sex drive to resist or ignore temptations of the flesh, the dull and isolated nature of space travel has a habit of turning even the most chaste celestial sightseer into a sex-starved letch.

Being of sound mind and ill will, I, Karen Miller-Strauss, execute this document dated March 19, 2022, to replace all prior wills and codicils from me or my beloved late husband, Arthur Strauss for whom I am next of kin, a blood relative, having given blood to sustain him during his final surgery. Disbursements will be reduced by the line item amounts for reasons stated.

Class Requirements: Black turtleneck. Hair pomade. Pack of Gauloises (or, in a pinch, Camel non-filters). Espresso-stained copy of Être et rien (and you will regette rien by rrroolling those r’s). 

When the universe alters to another dimension and cell phones are a relic of the past, the way cave writing once was for our ancestors, future spawnings will perhaps find solace and respite in the stories from our technological generation, and there’s nothing more ‘generational’ than that of a parent connecting with their children in the digital space.

1. Go into the woods and find a tree that’s been growing for a bit, but not too long, but still for a while.

2. Rub a pencil on the bark of the tee.

3. Make yourself cry green tears and fill them with the bark.