Dear Me

Dear Adolescent Me,

It’s me, a.k.a. eighty-eight-year-old you. As of right now, I have twenty-four hours to live, meaning I don’t have time for you to ramble about how it isn’t possible to write to your past self. So listen, please.

What do you expect from this letter? Lottery numbers? Explanations of wonderful new technology? The name of the college you went to and the type of degree that you may or may not have received?

Or do you think I’ll tell you that you grew up to be a beautiful woman with a happy family and that satisfactory job that you’ve always wanted? No, you don’t expect that. And you’re right. It didn’t all go to plan.

Now, let’s talk about the ‘plan’. As of right now, you don’t really have one, do you? Don’t lie; I’m you, you’re me, and I know you. But ironically enough, you don’t really know me, and I suppose that’s the whole point of this letter—for me to tell you about me. That is, for me to tell you about you.

Well, here’s all you really have to know: life went on. It didn’t exactly get 100% better, but it went on. That small worry you have right now, whatever it is, it doesn’t matter. Not in the long run, anyway. Life goes on, even if that’s not what you want to hear from anyone, least of all from yourself.

Oh, and by the way, school doesn’t fit under the umbrella of ‘small worries that don’t matter’. Finish your goddamn homework already.

Best wishes,

You