Listen, there are a lot of other things I could be doing right now. Things like bettering my skills in first-person writing or working on getting rid of the flab around my waist (or whatever you call it—it’s a waste of words; naming your chub-chubs).
But here I am, writing to you in second-person, using slang and tone I would never use in real life(‘cause I’m too fucking scared), but I’ve already started writing, so we’re going to…keep on going.
After all, if it’s you I’m spending time writing to, then it’s worth it. Honestly.
I am telling you, honey, to stop puttering about and waiting for text messages from boys who don’t really matter. I’m also encouraging—no, scratch that: STRONG RECCOMMENDING you figure out which team you bat for, or open yourself to both, because you know it and Future You (hi, hello, that’s me) also knows it: You tend to lead on both genders, or get too tangled up in the affairs of not only your boy- but girl- friends as well.
Or, you could consider cruising down Exit 101 and ditching everyone in your life who doesn’t really give a fuck about you; go for ‘em prickled-species: cacti make good friends and coffee-sippers. Just go with it. When life throws you a curve ball, you grab it and shove it down your throat and as the white, splotched canvas slips down the tubes of your body, remember that you were too fat to ever play baseball in Grade 3 anyway, the awkward Chinese girl who had her hair done up in pigtails and who ate too many Starbursts while sitting out on the bench during games.
Go figure. This brings me to another point; actually:
Don’t ever think for one second that you’re better than anyone else. Don’t think that you’re cooler than everyone just because you’re Chinese-American, don’t think that your reflexes are quicker than most because of that one and a half years you dedicated to playing baseball—you were the shittiest player, honey—and most of all, don’t think that just because you got an eighty for Maths, like, once in your lifetime of failures that you can lapse into self-content in the subject.
No. No. The main point of this lengthy rant/unnecessarily filthed-up letter to you, honey, is to get it in your head that you can never be complacent. You have to keep practising and drilling if you want to keep on achieving. You can’t fly without paying for an aeroplane ticket and if you can’t pay for an aeroplane ticket right now but still want to fly, don’t lapse into the tempting, soothing serenades that satisfaction brings. Just keep moving on like a fucking steam-roller(I mean you’re probably built like one, anyway) and keep plodding on ‘til your jeans snap and your shoelaces break and the skin on your cheeks sags and your lips are chapped and shredded to dust.
Don’t you rest ‘til you’re in your coffin, pale arms and pale legs dangling by your body, brain shrinking and life-blood draining—
Please. Or else we’ll both end up in a greater tragedy than the ones Shakespeare wrote about—or else you’ll really end up to be Future You currently, the one who drinks all day and wallows in her broken-hearted dreams of being a writer at sixteen, with nothing better to do.