I’m not exactly sure of the right way to go about this, David Strathairn, so I’m just going to come right out and say it. I would really like to see you, David Strathairn, lose your shit. There. It feels good to finally get it off my chest. I know what you must be thinking: Who the fuck is this guy, a guy who, out of the blue, wants to see me, David Strathairn, lose my shit? Wait—is “fuck” a word that you, David Strathairn, would use? Or even think? Not, I imagine, unless you lost your shit. Which is the whole point. So here we are.

Dear Student,

I regret to inform you I cannot accept your homework. I am aware it is due today, but I don’t think you clearly grasp the purpose of homework. Allow me to explain it more fully to you.

Homework is defined as a set of tasks or assignments that are to be completed outside of class. Pay attention to the phrases outside of class and the word home in homework.

Breathe. You’ve been jolted. Your heart palpitations and sudden flashbacks to the worst six years of your life are perfectly appropriate responses. After all, you’ve just received a class reunion invitation from a peer whose personality rivaled that of the clown called ‘It.’

Step away from the e-vite. Whether or not this is the first recorded attempt at an elementary school reunion since the founding of the Boston Latin School is irrelevant.

My wife Carol said something really sweet and profound to me the other day. I wish I’d muted the TV long enough to catch it all.

Carol starts every day by saying, “I love you.” I respond by asking her who she’s on the phone with.

Everything is your fault. If you were a good girl, you wouldn’t have gotten into that car accident.

You’re life is accompanied by a swelling musical score that sounds like classical music, but it’s not. It’s really, really not.