(First paragraph modified to first person from Suze's lovely words) I'm up before dawn on a Saturday when the doorbell rings. I haven't brewed my coffee so I wonder if I imagined the sound. Plonking the half-filled carafe in the sink, I go to the front door and cautiously swing it open. No one there. As I cast my eyes to the ground, I see a parcel addressed to me ... from me. I scoop it up and haul it inside, sensing something legitimate despite the extreme oddness of the situation. Carefully, I pry it open. Inside is a shoebox -- sent from ten years in the future -- and it's filled with items I have sent myself. Each item is contained in an envelope. Two envelopes are blank, but scrawled across one, in the eerily familiar penmanship that only I can accurately decipher, are the words: "The solution to the thing you're worrying abo...
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