Even though we never tell each other, I want you to know I love you. What I'm about to say may sound like an attack, but please believe me when I say that I'm speaking to you from a place of love. I want you to get better. I don't know how to say this, so I'm just going to come right out with it: Your addiction to flying planes has become a problem. When you do planes, it hurts me. It hurts all of us. Your plane use is becoming more and more destructive, and I can't sit here and just watch you fly anymore.
I remember when I was a kid and you knew to not look when the Nazis opened that box. You were sober then, and thinking level-headed. Those were great times, and I miss that version of Harrison. But later, after you started planing, you made Random Hearts and Hollywood Homicide. How was I supposed to deal with that as a kid? How do I watch Han Solo and Indiana Jones as a cowboy fighting frog-faced aliens? What the hell made you think wearing those glasses and shaving your head in Paranoia was a good idea?
Did you even think of me? No, you weren't thinking at all, because your head was in the clouds.
I miss the way things used to be, when it was the one-armed man who did bad things. But now the one-armed man inside of you has taken the stick, and clearly he can't fly good, because he only has one arm. There was a time when I could trust you to be president of the United States and take over Air Force One from terrorists. But now I feel like you're trying to be the actual president on Air Force One.
When I was being bullied in school, you helped me through by constantly reminding me that someone who had been in Star Wars could still get laid, so my chances after just watching it a bunch of times were pretty good. But all that changed in 1999, when you tried helicopter for the first time and nearly killed yourself and your helicopter dealer.
I thought maybe almost dying would be a wake-up call to you, but it only got worse. The very next year, you were forced to make an emergency landing. But you kept doing plane! And then the worst -- in 2015, you crashed. It was too much plane for you. You'd been doing plane for years and thought you could handle anything, but you couldn't. Not this time.
I remember seeing the plane on the news, and hearing about how you'd broken your arm and suffered memory loss. Did you forget me then? Because now, only two years later, you nearly crashed into a 747 and landed on a taxiway instead of a runway. Look what plane has done to you. To us. Are you flying the plane, or is the plane flying you?
I don't want to attack you or make you feel guilty. We can't turn back the clock. And I want you to know that I never hated you or stopped caring about you. I just hate the things you do, because they scare me. Plane scares me. And I don't know why it doesn't scare you.
I understand how much fun plane can be. I flew over the Grand Canyon once, and it was pretty cool to be so high up. Plus a flight attendant gave me little booze bottles and I kept telling the guy next to me there was a man on the wing. I get it, believe me. This is not your fault. Plane is a sickness, and you need to recognize that so you can stop. Cars can be good enough, Harrison. Try the train, for god's sake!
I love you, Harrison. We all do. We don't want to see you crash a plane into a Denny's you mistook for an empty field. We're here to help you. Will you accept our help? Will you stop plane?
Ian, Spokesman For The Entire Internet
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