Dear mini-me

I have come across a blogging fad where people write letters to their 13 year old selves, presumably to tell the poor floundering hormone sacs that things will get better in time (ah, you want me to lie? I have no problem with that).


What a bizarre concept. If anyone had written the 13 year old me a letter telling me about the prolonged mess that would culminate in the current me, I would have jumped out of the nearest window. (Actually, come to think of it, the town I grew up in was essentially a one storey place. I suppose I would have had to jump out of a tree). I need some future me to write me a letter NOW telling me that things will be ok (lie, lie, all you want).



But I shall write a little letter anyway:



Dear mini-me



From what I remember, by age 13 you have already figured out that life is full of shit. It will not change. Stuff will happen, good, bad, and terrible. You will survive (at least until age 27, can’t say past that until I get the letter).



P.S You have turned out to be a confused, misdirected drifter, much as you suspected you would. Do not worry about it, you are incurable.

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