Figure 1. Licensed Potato Therapist.
Dear Thirty Year-Old Self,
I am writing you from the depths of 8th grade English class. I will assume you are now an accomplished drum soloist and waste no further words on the matter. It is my hope that you've followed through on our desire to invent a new form of firework and have forgone profit, instead bequeathing the patent to “children everywhere.” I further hope that we have not developed a taste for candy canes or cursing on Sundays. I/we are on the path to owning a wig shop and I wouldn't want such weakness to stall the permitting process.
Do you remember our music teacher having a stroke in class? Or the currently popular baseball player who was eaten by a shark? I hope we don't end up like them. I suppose it depends on how much hatred we've earned in God's eyes. If anything, I'd still like to die in a fiery motorcycle crash during an earthquake. Oh, and do we still like penguins?
Please don't worry about me. I've got a calculator to keep me entertained. Please keep the list of people we owe an apology to a minimum. I understand it will be all our own fault. I'm counting on us not to mutate into a fish person.
– your eighth grade self.