Wow, guys, this is deeply uncool. After all these years, I finally make it to a Passover Seder, only to find you polished off the only cup of wine specifically intended for me. I mean, it had my name engraved all over it, in two different languages. Kind of hard not to take that personally, you know?

I realize I’m thousands of years late to this shindig, so maybe it’s uncouth of me to point this out. But back when I was first invited, I distinctly remember Boaz saying he was making a liquor run, and asking everyone to write down what they wanted on a piece of parchment. I wrote, “One cup of red wine for Elijah the Prophet. Please don’t drink till I get there or until I announce the messianic redemption (whichever comes first!) I have to pick my nephew up from school, so I’m going to be late.” Super rad to see how you respected my wishes.

I accept that some of the blame lies with me. Every year you extend me an invitation, and every year I RSVP that I’m coming. And believe me, I fully intend to! Some years I’m literally en route to your house with a bouquet of fresh flowers for the host and a crockpot full of my family’s secret recipe for sweet and sour meatballs. And every year, something wacky and unexpected happens to keep me away. Sometimes the camel I’m driving keels over mid-journey. Other times I realize I left my hairdryer plugged in and have to turn around. One year I made too sharp of a turn, and the meatballs spilled out of the crockpot and all over the camel. You think the ten plagues are bad? I spent the rest of that holiday cleaning meat lumps out of camel humps. I think I would have preferred the locusts.

Okay, maybe it’s because you’ve been drinking for the last four hours, but I don’t appreciate you laughing at me. To be completely honest, I think this whole thing has been kind of a dick move. You guys drink, what? Four glasses of wine every Seder? At the bare minimum? And you couldn’t leave that one tiny cup for me? I was already feeling insecure about missing thousands of years of inside jokes and group chats. There are entire generations of this family I’ve never even met! Whose baby am I holding? I have no idea!

I hoped that a little liquid courage might help ease the transition, or at least keep me from anxiously laughing too loudly at everybody’s jokes. But no. You expect me to take on this experience stone-cold sober. And it’s not like you forgot I was coming either. Rachel told me every year you do this whole song and leave the door open to greet me, which I do find flattering, albeit unsafe and probably not great for your heating bill.

Since we’re getting these grievances off our chests, I’m just going to come out and say it. I find it a little suspect that there are at least four days’ worth of leftover food here, but every drop of wine in this house has mysteriously vanished. You know I have a sensitive stomach—fermented grapes are the only thing I can safely metabolize. Man, this sucks. I was really looking forward to this evening. The only places I get invited anymore are circumcisions, and there are only so many baby privates a prophet can look at without requiring some serious self-reflection.

Wait a minute. Is there someone reclining in my chair too? The seat at the table you specifically left empty for me? Who even is this guy? What makes him so special? I bet he’s not as fun at parties as I am. I bet he can’t convince the almighty to bring children back from the dead or help end famines and shit.

You know what? Forget it. I don’t deserve this treatment, and I shouldn’t have to prove myself to you. The Universe was clearly trying to tell me something by keeping me away all these years. And I probably should have seen it coming, given my prophetic nature. I think it’s time for me to leave. I hope you enjoy the rest of the Seder and have a wonderful Passover—I’ll see you all at the End of Times.