The great pretender

Dear future hubster,

When asked about your future wife's superpowers, remember to mention that she's really good at blending in. Water bottle in one hand, coffee in the other, walking with purpose, and she looks like she knows where she's going. Hell she even looks like she knows what she's doing.

May the rest of the world fooled by this act, but you, dear future hubster, should know that she probably has absolutely no clue what next, and behind that purposeful walking she anxiously wonders what the hell she just got herself into.

Pro tip

Dear future hubster,
we will both work, eventually. We will have kids, hopefully. When days will be too short, and nights too tiresome, and I will not even have the time to shower, put some water to boil. Bring me a cup of tea and a hug. Not necessarily in this order.

Part of the deal

Dear future hubster,
I am sorry that you are missing a quarter of an X and therefore you don't have superpowers like I do. I still like you anyway.

And the Heartbreakers

Dear future hubster,

I think about it every time something similar happens, when some famous, admired, inspiring, appreciated artist's time on Earth ends. How the whole world seems to just suddenly recall how much that person, or, most likely, that person's work has meant to them. 

I understand nostalgia and have myself experienced that remoter grief for somebody I never knew, but I can't help asking the bitter, cynical question: How about we start appreciating our artists while they are still alive?

And while we're at it, how about doing the same to the people we appreciate in our actual lives? You know, those commonly known as 'loved ones'?