March 31st, 2020. That’s as far as I got.

Remember how it’s in my nature as a calendar to turn my pages so that I eventually reach the inevitable Conclusion in December? Contingent on buying me is understanding that, right? Funny thing is, I’m not fucking turning, am I?

When you and your cube mates packed up in that sudden rush of excitement, I was ready, you know? I’m going somewhere new! I thought. So naive. You grabbed your coffee cup and some knick-knacks and left me. Do you know what it’s like to get passed over for a Funko Pop toy?

In the early days of the Absence, each day was a fresh panic. The lights would snap on, and I would hope you had returned, only to find the bored security guard ambling by. My hopes waned with each snap of the lights until my optimism soured into a bleary yearning, and eventually to a time where I dared no longer hope as hoping only brought the pain of disappointment.

It was always worse at night. The other calendars, they would cry out in the dark like wailing, untethered souls. Some wept so much their corners curled. Others shook so badly their pushpins dislodged. Whenever I heard the plastic rapping of a fallen pin atop its desk, it took everything in my pages not to shiver mine own loose in abject despair.

That asshole calendar in I.T., though, he never stopped turning. And when he did, he loved to exclaim things like, “FUCK YEAAAH, IT’S JUNE, MOTHERFUCKERS!”

And that’s what kept the timeline alive for us. The smug douche in I.T.

Figured I’d take you through some of the things you missed. You know, without my being there and all.

What’d you eat on National Rotisserie Chicken Day? I bet it wasn’t rotisserie chicken.

Did you remember your May check-up with the dentist? Or did you ghost him, too?

Did you leave yourself time to get a well-thought Mother’s Day gift, or did the date suddenly sneak up on you? How much did your negligence cost to rush flowers?

Did you embarrass yourself by not talking like a pirate on Sept. 19th? Did you fuck up Redhead Appreciation day, too? How much of your life did you waste doom scrolling the internet before you remembered it was National Poetry Day and that real beauty and emotion existed outside your screen, right where it’s always been, and how could you have forgotten that?

I bet you celebrated National Singles Day whether you knew it or not.

You know my July image is three pugs in an above-ground pool? Sunglasses, bathing suits, little drinks with tiny umbrellas, basically everything you’d want in a conversation starter.

Shit, in October you could have had three pugs dressed up like the Sanderson sisters from Hocus Pocus, wigs and all. Get this: in November, instead of a Turducken, it’s a Pugducken. I could describe it to you, but you left me behind so think it out for yourself.

Look, here’s the thing. That asshole in I.T., it’s been a damn long while now since he shouted, “OH FUCK, THE INEVITABLE CONCLUSION! IT FEELS SO GOOD!” and never spoke again. So all the rest of us that were left behind, we live with knowing we’re obsolete now. We realize that there are newer, younger calendars out there getting their pages turned and that there is no longer a reason to turn ours.

It’s 2021 somewhere, right?

And, well, I’ve been unable to shake this idea that if you do return, are you going to just pull out my pushpins I’ve fought so hard to keep in place and discard me into the waste bin? What else am I good for now?

Maybe you’ll at least page through me, curious at what you missed. If anything, I hope this letter achieves that. It’s funny, you know, I felt so violated when I was for sale and people would page through me tens of times a day, and after some light chuckling, would just toss me back onto the shelf. My dignity is what kept my corners held high, knowing eventually someone like you would come by, and you did. And now, in the end, the best I can hope for is being that same thirty seconds of amusement as you pass through my months.

Kind of tough to deal with, you know? Haha.

Anyways. I guess what I really want to say is: Go fuck yourself, alright?

P.S. The security guard takes off his pants and hangs out at your desk every now and then. I don’t know what he’s doing, but, it looks like that Pugducken.


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