Dear Stephen Hawking:

No, really.

Dear Stephen Hawking, I need your help. See, you can’t type or talk but you’ve got that cool little machine thingie that somehow reads the brainwaves from your pinkie finger and types out super complicated theories about blackholes and the basic nature of the universe and probably also grocery lists and whatnot. We won’t even talk about top down cosmology here because that’s probably not the type of thing most of my readers are interested in, or at least, they don’t KNOW that they’re interested in it (of course they are, but it would be easier for them to identify with it if it were named something less pretentious and you might want to consider that the next time you’re naming fancy theories, that’s all I’m saying Stephen Hawking.) but let’s just say that you have come up with some unbelievably complicated crap since you lost the ability to speak or feed yourself. Plus, you were on Star Trek The Next Generation that one time so no matter what I will always love you like Whitney Houston loves Kevin Costner.

OK So but here’s my problem Stephen Hawking: I have this crapped out thumb/wrist situation which is seriously impacting a previously mildly disturbed elbow situation and turning my whole right arm and shoulder into a thoroughly buggered DEAR SWEET JESUS TYPING, TEXTING OR WRITING MAKES ME A MURDEROUS STABBY BITCH type of situation. It also make sitting motionless at my desk without crying, picking up my toddler without falling down or OPENING A BOTTLE OF WINE incredibly difficult, but I understand that you can’t fix everything Stephen Hawking and therefore all I’m trying to talk to you about today is the fact that I want to borrow your voice synthesizer except that I need it to work the other way around, get me?

Great.

I can talk. There’s nothing wrong with my pipes Stephen Hawking, just ask my husband. And I don’t have any big fancy theories that I need to communicate to the world, I just need to be able to talk to people on the interwebs and on the phone without being driven to chop my hand off using a pair of baby nail clippers.

Since you didn’t answer my first (private) letter or simply mail me a fancy voice synthesizer machine I went ahead and saw an Orthopaedic Surgeon today. His name is Jeffrey and while he didn’t offer me any kind of voice synthesizer substitute, he did give me a nice juicy shot of cortisone into my wrist so frankly he’s the current front runner for my favorite Doctor Guy in the universe, even if YOU DO understand that universe better than he does.

Stephen Hawking, I’d like very much to put you back in front of the line of super smart guys who understand important crap so that I don’t have to, but frankly if you don’t pony up soon with the synthesizer I’ll be forced to bump you back behind Perez Hilton, because at least he’s making an effort to explain the whole Miley Cyrus thing to me. So come on Stephen Hawking, let’s go. Bring me some solutions not problems.

But I swear on Worf’s Bat’leth, if you mention Vlingo Stephen Hawking, you are dead to me.

Dead.