I Think My Boyfriend Is An Alien Tasked With Shepherding the Human Race to the Next Step in Its Evolution


Hey, Liz. Thanks for coming on short notice. I know I can lay my guy problems on you pretty thick, but this time it’s serious. This time I really like the guy, and I want to try and make it work between us. It’s just that I think he’s an alien tasked with shepherding the human race to the next step in its evolution.

All the signs are there, like how he’s always saying he wants to “show me the stars.” At first I thought he was just being sweet, but when he telepathically transports me to a far-off star system, laying the universe out before me as if it’s a child’s playset, it’s like, red flag much?

And I know this sounds like such a luxury problem, but I don’t know if I’m ready to be anyone’s “Star-Child.” I mean, if I transcend my physical being and join him in a hyper-dimensional consciousness, will I stop being “Fun Maggie”? Will we still have girls’ night, you and me?

Things have just been going so fast. One moment I’m spilling a strawberry marg on his lap like a total klutz, and the next I’m at his place, hyper-aware of the web of time stretching infinite into past and future. You ever do a walk of shame from the fourth dimension? Kinda gross.

The worst part is I get the vibe he’s one of these “hit it and quit it” assholes, who bestows the gift of celestial knowledge upon you and drops off the planet for millennia. His last relationship ended with the Aztec Empire, which in itself is a solid track record, but will I be left to craft profound monuments to his glory for the rest of my life? I’m not looking to deify anyone right now. You know how weird I got after Brad.

At this point I know the relationship’s inevitable—I’ve seen the fourth dimension after all. I guess I just need to talk these things out because this conversation is part of a predetermined set of infinite circumstances, which also include me becoming an immortal Übermensch, you dying in a nursing home on Long Island, and the universe imploding in 300 billion years.

Anyway, thanks for hearing me out, Liz. I’m off to a date with this guy on a quark somewhere, and then we might try out some butt-play. He’s really into butt-play, which is fine.

-MG ’14


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