I think to myself, “Oh, this is how it works. I’m the guy that tells her jokes, and he’s the guy with two duffel bags of pot who has sex with her afterwards.” I realize that I have been hopelessly “Baby New Yeared.”
A time both of us were once so relentlessly eager to leave behind.
Presumably, when we place our ephemera into a time capsule, whether it’s a ziploc baggie in a shoebox in the backyard, or a municipal vault sealed on the occasion of some locally-relevant anniversary, we hope to impart an accurate snapshot to the future — a selective recreation of life as we know it.
You watch Back to the Future and read a little Audrey Niffenegger, and you think you know everything. Have you considered that, in the wrong historical moment, you could be picked apart by lions for the amusement of a coliseum, or die gasping and spitting from cholera?