Correspondence #42 of the Robanic Archives
Correspondence #42 of the Robanic Archives
Date: Indeterminate, entangled
Sender: Prof. Dr. Albert Einstein
Recipient: Rob (as manifested in Canadian Rob, Australian Rob, and a briefly appearing cheese salesman from Utrecht)
Transmitted via: Quantum Spaghetti Tunneling, overseen by Bishop Lyrkin and partially interpreted by Judo, Patriarch of Sarcasm
Filed by: Bruxius the Councilor, after significant eyebrow-raising
Dear Rob,
As you may have read in the footnotes of the Universe (Appendix ϕ, subclause 7), I once declared that God does not play dice with the universe. I wish to inform you that I am now quite certain He plays dice, poker, and an occasional round of Galacticon Worm-Racing with very confusing rules, half of which were written by your Garage Master Harsheh while sipping vineyard gas.
Your recent letter (delivered in a flash of blue light by a beetle in a cassock) proposed that love itself might be a form of entanglement—and while I initially dismissed this as sentimental pseudoscience (like astrology or low-fat cheese), I must now concede: you may have a point.
Indeed, I observed your Church of Rob’s experiments using emotionally entangled particles—one of which you reportedly cried on after reading Fiona Apple’s lyrics, the other of which spontaneously smelled like Dutch onions four galaxies away. This is either scientific confirmation or a very leaky fridge.
Your acolyte Judo (who keeps whispering Pratchett quotes at me through folded probability space) insists the universe is fundamentally a joke told by a mind much weirder than ours. He says things like:
“You can’t map a sense of humour. You can’t even measure it in tablespoons.”
This is disturbingly accurate.
I am also fascinated by your suggestion that when two beings fall in love across oceans, they behave as quantum romanticles: particles whose emotional states remain correlated, regardless of distance, time zones, or unfortunate Spotify playlists. This would explain why my great-grandnephew keeps dating people he’s never met physically and still writes them sonnets.
However, your idea that entanglement should be applied to marital status—including Base 1 LAT (Living Apart Together), Base 2 (Living Near a Hammock), and Base 3 (Ceremonial Robanic Union with the passing of the Sacred Tea Mug)—requires more study. I would advise that no one be legally allowed to marry without proving they can construct a hammock blindfolded.
Finally, I would caution you, dear Rob, against using entanglement as a solution for international diplomacy. While your “RobMatch” proposal to entangle Dutch and American singles is emotionally rich, early trials in my lab caused a tulip merchant and a rodeo clown to develop mirrored sneezes and simultaneous lactose intolerance. You may be on to something… but then again, so was Schrödinger, and he never found his cat.
I remain intrigued. Disturbed. Slightly gassy. And grateful.
In quantic bemusement,
Albert Einstein
Former patent clerk
Part-time entanglement skeptic
Full-time disciple of Cosmic Nonsense
🎩🧀📡
P.S. I spoke briefly with Saint Fiona of the Unbitten Apple. She says you’re not mad—just very early.
Robanic Council Communal Response #42.1
Re: Einstein’s Entangled Letter & Quantum Romance
As interpreted by Sven ‘Rawballs’, High Priest of the Church of Rob
Filed by Bruxius, Councilor of Organized Madness
💀 Judo, Patriarch and Probable Pratchett Whisperer:
“Love is like quantum tunneling—it happens in spite of the odds and is almost never where you expect it.”
I told Al (he lets me call him that now) that diplomacy and multiverse dating should follow Discworld rules: if the universe is flat, odd, and full of exploding librarians, then so too should be our relationships. I fully support entangled love, provided all parties are warned that sometimes the entanglement collapses into a soggy sock drawer.
🚂 Bishop Lyrkin, Master of Railroads and Parallel Timelines:
“In Universe 7B, I once married myself by accident. It was a lovely ceremony. I gave a speech and fainted from emotion.”
Entanglement across multiverses is a scheduling nightmare, but it could revolutionize diplomacy. Imagine ambassadors emotionally linked to their opposites: every insult felt as a stomachache, every sincere compliment followed by a mutual nosebleed of joy. We may finally get peace treaties signed through synchronized blushing.
🧃 Harsheh, Garage Master and Doctor of Vineyards:
“I once fell in love with a bottle of 1993 Nebbiolo. I still write it letters.”
Love is already multiversal—it’s just that most people don’t realize their soulmate lives on Earth-384, where they’re a sentient mushroom. I propose Rob-sanctioned Crossover Courting protocols. Each participant drinks a carefully aged red and spins a globe until emotionally dizzy. Love finds you then. Usually somewhere humid.
⚡ Lonney, Lightning Quick Acolyte:
“What if love isn’t entanglement, but lag?”
Hear me out. What if we’re always slightly out of sync with the people meant for us? Like trying to stream affection through satellite internet. Maybe the solution isn’t to entangle—but to buffer better. I’m developing a HugCache™ protocol for that. Currently in alpha. Hug responsibly.
🔧 Bruxius, Councilor of Bureaucratic Improvisation:
“The paperwork for entangled marriage is, frankly, a nightmare. Half of it writes itself. The other half disappears if you observe it.”
Diplomacy must adapt. I propose the Department of Robanic Relations: staffed entirely by poets, slightly drunk violinists, and beetles with typewriters. Agreements will be sealed by hammocking together for a weekend. Wars end when both sides sob into pistachio gelato and admit they only wanted to be seen.
👑 High Priest Sven ‘Rawballs’ Roelse:
“I dreamed of Fiona again. She was tuning a harp and humming in binary.”
What I’ve learned is this: love is either the greatest force in the cosmos… or it’s a persistent side effect of meaningful absurdity. Either way, I’m convinced: every Robist should have a multiverse emergency contact. Someone who can find them when they’ve gone emotionally offline. If that’s not diplomacy, what is? I’ll send a wire to Johnny asking what he thinks.
🦂 Inquisitor JohnnyAywah, Keeper of the WiFi Flame
Transmission: Whispered through a cracked Discord server at 03:16 AM UTC+9, timestamp corrupted
Decryption provided by Lonney, heavily redacted by Harsheh
“Einstein was wrong about one thing. Entanglement isn’t spooky—it’s needy. Like a drunk text from the soul.”
Rob bless it, I read the letter. Einstein. The old fluffhead’s finally cracked the code between love and latency. I always said that if quantum particles can affect each other over infinite distances, so can heartstrings—especially those strummed at 2 a.m. when Sven’s trying not to listen to Fiona Apple but she’s already looped into his blood like a musical parasite.
Now, love. Let’s talk.
Multiverse dating? I’ve already interrogated three versions of myself who are simultaneously married to the same woman. She’s a diplomat in one, a sandwich artist in another, and a unicorn with a master’s in comparative theology in the third. Every one of them says the same thing: “She listens.” That’s entanglement, mate. When someone tunes into your broadcast even when you’re only mumbling in packet loss.
Diplomacy? You’re missing the point. True diplomacy doesn’t happen between nations. It happens between selves. Between the part of you that wants to run, and the part that knows it already has. Robanic Diplomacy is when you don’t try to win. You try to witness. A handshake across realities that says, “You’re ridiculous, and I love you for it.”
So here’s my judgment, raw and unfiltered, as is my tradition:
- Entangle with intent.
- Don’t love like Schrödinger—check the damn box. Open the heart.
- If you’re going to date across dimensions, bring snacks. Jet lag is one thing; timeline lag is brutal.
And if any of this feels like heresy, good. That’s where Rob lives—in the blessed blur between science, satire, and something a little bit sacred.
Scene: Somewhere in the Robanic Highlands. Three hammocks sag between gnarled trees. A kettle steams softly over a fire. Above them: stars, infinite and blinking like tiny judgmental LEDs.
JohnnyAywah (squinting at the stars):
You know, statistically speaking, one of those bastards up there is home to someone who’d love me exactly as I am. Flaws, flags, and footnotes included. Trouble is, the damn distance fee.
JUDO (sipping tea):
That’s why the universe expands. Makes room for our excuses.
High Priest Sven (grinning):
Or our hammocks.
(They all nod.)
JohnnyAywah:
Einstein wrote back, you know. Called love “a side effect of meaningful absurdity.” I think he’s just jealous we made a religion out of it.
High Priest Sven (thoughtful):
He also said we collapse timelines by observing them. Maybe love’s like that. You don’t really know what it is until it’s looking back at you with coffee breath and a half-stolen blanket.
JUDO:
Love is when you let them keep the blanket. Even though your ass is freezing.
(Pause. The fire crackles. A beetle with wings like chrome skitters by and vanishes into the night.)
JohnnyAywah:
Sometimes I think love is just recognition. Not in the mirror. But in someone else’s stupid eyes when they see your stupid soul and don’t flinch.
High Priest Sven:
Like entangled particles. No matter how far, when one of us weeps, the other burns the rice.
JUDO (quietly):
Or writes a song they’ll never hear.
(They sit a while. The kettle whistles low. Above, the stars go on blinking, not giving a damn.)
JohnnyAywah:
You think any of them—those lights—are watching us?
High Priest Sven:
I hope not. I’ve been picking my nose for twenty minutes.
JUDO (chuckling):
Good. Let ‘em know who they’re dealing with.