(St. Petersburg, FL) Hello. My name is Dr. Formaldehyde. I am a simple being. I enjoy a good cold brew and making clones of myself in my basement. I’ve been doing this on and off for the last few years and believe it or not, I had amassed a solid 30 clones of myself in my basement. Now, just a few weeks ago, my clones have start disappearing. Not to sound like a baby boomer, but I am 100% sure that the millennials are to blame. Let me tell you.

It started a few weeks ago when 23 started itching himself on the radiator. I had to let him get out in the sunlight or he’d scratch himself to the bone. While he was outside, 7 fell down the stairs again and I had to go sew his head up. When I came back upstairs to check on 23, he was gone. The only thing of note that I saw was a Prius scooting away down the street. And I swear to you that I saw blood on the door handles.

 

A couple of days later, I was taking 10 for a walk, pretending he was my adult twin brother if anyone asked. I had just gotten us a couple of scones after 10 promised not to tell the other guys when I lost sight of 10 in the crowd. I looked around for him all over. I even, expecting millennials were to blame, went straight to the Microsoft store and REI in search of these murderers.

 

It was the loss of 10 that truly had me spinning. I try not to ever favor one clone over another, but 10 was the first clone I could really have a conversation with. 1-9 are pretty annoying, to be honest. I wish someone would take them out instead. 10 was my favorite and now I am lost without him here.

 

Oh. Right. Let me tell you about last night.

 

I walked down into my kitchen, thirsty from all the sleeping, and flipped on the light so I could grab a glass from the cabinet. What I saw still haunts me to my core.

 

4 millennials were standing over my second favorite clone, 29, beating him with avocados. I wasn’t even sure how 29 had gotten upstairs, I had tucked each of the remaining clones into hybersleep over 45 minutes before. How could he have gotten out?

 

Underneath the harsh light of my kitchen fluorescents the millennials were even more disgusting than I feared. In each of their hands was an avocado, stained with 29’s blood and smushed into a cool guac. They met my eyes and took a Snapchat selfie before jumping through the nearest window. I tried to catch one of them, but they were too quick for me and all I saw was the taillights of a Prius leaving me in the dust.

 

I asked 29 what had happened when I got back inside. 29 was holding a bag of peas over his eye, which had received quite a few hits, and leaning against the fridge. “I had just come upstairs to check on you and make sure you had had your nightly water snack.”

 

“Oh you,” I replied, giggling.

 

“Well I was getting the water down from the cabinet when I felt a hand on my shoulder. Next thing I knew some kid was yelling at me to tell him where the avocados were. I was so disoriented, but I somehow managed to point at the fruit basket next the oven before passing out.” 29 paused for a moment to transfer the bag of peas from one side of his face to other.

 

“I have never been so scared. Well, except for the first year of my life where I knew nothing but the sight of my own face multiplied by 30. That was pretty bad. Before I knew what to do, I woke to each of the millennials beating me with an avocado. It was humiliating.”

 

I went downstairs with 29 to get him to sleep, but he was so wired from what had happened that he need three stories before he fell asleep. By the time I came back upstairs I was so tired that I fell asleep on the couch.

 

When I woke in the morning, I found that both 23 and 24 had disappeared in the night. I beg you, millennials, if you are who is taking and possibly killing my clones, please stop. I am losing my mind and my life’s work all at once. It’s a lot to handle.

 

Again. Stop killing my clones, filthy millennials.

 

 

This article was written by a millennial (whoops) named Nathan Ellwood. Follow him for more on Twitter @NPEllwood.