My entire life is beginning to feel like one giant retarded cartoon version of The Fugitive. It was a one-armed man who sent you your mystery mail, blogoverse. OR AT LEAST THAT'S MY BEST GUESS.
Your "science" may wrongly point the finger, Mr. Veronica Mars, but true science will set me free. I demand fingerprinting. Or DNA testing.
(Also, from reviewing his extensive research, I've gathered the G.p. desparately needs some freelance work. Something, anything, to get his mind off the fair princesses. If you can be so kind as to send assignments his way.)