Letters To Myself (Check in 10 Years)

The Second One of the Three

Dear Malia,

 I really don't know what to say.  There are no words at this point, only feeling, which is what I suppose you are like these days.  Unless you figured out a way or found some people to make you chipper and glowing, at this point you are probably going through the motions whenever you have free time in your own head.

 Don't get me wrong, it would be fantastic if you're happy right now, doing all of which I hope I'll be doing at your age. 

 The odds of that happening however are slim as of now (and remember I’m talking about your happiness), and so here I am, realizing that unless I really did complete my life dream, I am as screwed as a nail into wood.  This means, dear reader of mine, that if I failed I am either:

 a) Suicidal and depressed

 b) Dead already, because we both know that we have fight, but even we understand when enough is enough

 Or c) living with my mother, because I’m damned if I live with my father. 

 I shudder at all prospects of my hopelessness in this situation, just as you probably are while reading this.

 Therefore, it is understandable that Malia, you better have gone to college and gotten a well-paying job or I'll kill you myself.  Would that be considered suicide?

 So I suppose I should tell you about myself.  Here goes nothing.

 As of now, I have realized comfort is best.  T-shirts, skinny jeans, converse and jelly bracelets are your, well my, friends; a big step up from 8th grade, where showing massive cleavage and twirling hair around your finger was the epitome of 'cool'.

 I have come a very long way, trust me my friend.  You probably remember. 

 I can honestly say 8th grade was the best year to go into massive depression, because that was the first time I got straight A's without effort and made a friend- previously thought a bitch- that probably changed my life.  Not that she'll ever really realize it, though when it comes into conversation she's happy to say she manipulated me into someone cooler.  I think she just had to smack me a few times before I matured up and realized there was more to life then perpetual whorishness. 

 However, we’re not talking about the idiocy of middle school, nor are we trying to remind you of 8th grade terrors, and like I said before: You remember.  Unless society figured out how to forever repress bad memories, then I won’t care to remind you.  No one wants to be reminded of their own stupidity.

 We are talking about me, which is sadly hard to do in this moment.  I refuse to elaborate on this unnecessary fact. 

 I spend about an hour at most to get ready, with putting on my face and straightening my hair because it being curvy- yes curvy, because it is wavy and curly at the same time- is the bane of my existence.  Sort of like a bug on the wind shield, all you can do is stare at it and wish it would change or disappear entirely.  I hate to break it to you though Hun, but even you can’t pull of being bald.  You would most likely look like a big breasted male appendage. 

 I’m also not insinuating that I am the hottest chick on the block, because that’s not it either.  There are definitely those more gorgeous then me and you-HAH I can say that without insulting anyone- but I’m also far from being the ugliest.   I think I might take too much pride in that at times, stupid self-absorbed qualities I can have.

 I have the appearance of the punk as well as the music tastes, the enthusiasm of a cheerleader (excluding sarcastic joy), the obliviousness of a bubblehead, the intelligence of a cryptic old wise man, and the mindset of a tomboy.  I would like to say I have multiple personalities.  I don’t like to lie to myself, I know I did that to myself too much already in prior years, so I will be content and say that it would give me amazing explanations as to who I am.