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Take the package to the lady
You spent so many years staring at that address label. It's burned forever into your memory. When you get back to civilization you head to the local library to figure out where the heck it is.
Of course it's in some random incredibly remote spot out in the wild untamed wilderness of the great plains. Probably a stupid crummy metaphor for your own tragic isolation. You call a taxi and ride out toward destiny.
Hours later the taxi pulls up to the end of a long gravel driveway. "I don't do driveways," the taxi driver says by way of explanation.
"Fine," you say, "Keep the meter running." The meter has rolled over several times on your way here. Neither of you are aware of what your fare even is at this point. It doesn't matter.
You walk up to the door and knock vociferously. Eventually a beautiful and wan woman answers. She looks as lonely and isolated as a cast away on a desert island.
"Ms. Fanna Bo Besca III?" you ask.
"Huh?" the woman says.
"Is your name Princess Angelina Contessa Louisa Francesca Banana Fanna Bo Besca III?" you ask.
The woman looks at you like you just grew a third head. Like you just said the wildest thing anyone has ever said to anyone else in the history of the human race. "...Yeah." she says at last.
"I've got something for you," you say, "It's a package."
"A package for me?" she asks incredulously, "That's impossible! Who the hell are you?"
"Federal Express!" you say, "Actually a bunch of us at the office were hoping maybe you could shed some light on the subject. I've had this cardboard box in my possession for the past 70 years."
The woman stares at you.
"It was given to us," you go on, "with the explicit instructions that it be delivered to a young woman with your description. Answering to the name of 'Princess Angelina Contessa Louisa Francesca Banana Fanna Bo Besca III.' At this exact location, at this exact minute, November 12th, 1955. We had a little bet going whether this 'Princess Angelina Contessa Louisa Francesca Banana Fanna Bo Besca III' would actually be here.
The woman stares at you.
"Looks like I lost," you say with a giggle.
"Did you say 70 years?" the woman asks.
"Yeah 70 years, 2 months, twelve days-" you say.
"Wait hang on, is the package FOR 1955, or is it FROM 1955?" asks the woman.
"What?" you ask.
"Because," the woman says, "1955 was like, 70 years ago. So was the package SENT in 1955 or is it supposed to be DELIVERED in 1955?"
"Uh," you say, "Delivered, I think."
"So you're 70 years too late?" the woman presses.
"Listen lady," you say crabbily, "I've had other stuff going on. Are you going to take the package or not?"
"Fine." she says, "Whatever. Just hand it over."
Oh. Crap. That package that kept you going, that kept you thinking about the people out in civilization, that made you remember your purpose in life. You left it back on the island, somewhere in the pacific.
You want to kill yourself again.
GAME OVER