Dear 1987 me,

You are such a turd. Really, I wanted to drop you a line to try and straighten you out. Right about now you think you are so badass, what with your Bon Jovi cassette, mullet, and hockey buddies.

First off, don’t get any idea about staying in East Grand Forks, Minnesota. The best thing to come out of that town is the “Turkey Grinder” with taco meat and extra white sauce from the Red Pepper East. If you keep eating those gut bombs, you’re bound to end up living in a town known best for its late night cuisine or something.

Now let’s look at the wardrobe shall we? What in the name of holy hell is going on in this closet? Acid washed denim? Jean jacket with rolled sleeves and popped collar? Ripped up hair band t-shirts? Winger button? Do you want ANY girl to talk to you? Ever?

Speaking of girls, here are a few pointers for you. Any girl that may be into you right now is clearly confused. Don’t get a big head. You have no game. Your hormones are so out of control that merely grinding on a girl will cause you to pop off. That’s just embarrassing and messy, and if you want to avoid pissing me off, you’ll at least wait until you’re old enough to drive.

And to that point, due to your mom driving you around everywhere you go, don’t even think about “going” with girls. That includes not asking Marla Carter to homecoming in Junior High. She’ll eventually end up with a guy 10 times better than you, and riding in the back seat of your thick accented mom’s Plymouth Horizon won’t be awkward at all will it?

Seriously, me. I would like to punch through your face and rip out your brain
And why for God’s sake are you begging mom and dad for a waterbed of all things? What, you think 12 year old honeys will flock to you with the knowledge that a night of sea-sickness awaits them? You know what’s cool about having a water bed? Nothing! Go ahead, get one. Good luck trying to get rid of it. Jesus, you’re a disappointment.

Maybe it’s time you put all of the stereo equipment in your room to good use. See all of those tapes and records you have? They’re worthless, and taking too much space in my storage. I suggest becoming close friends with someone in a computer lab. If you can figure out a way to turn all that music into code and share files with other people, you may just be able to buy your own country someday.

There really is so much more I would like to do, but I’m busy not working at a job you’re thinking could make for a great career. Good looking out, there. I wouldn’t want people to think I have a negative self-image. Now, put away the “Metal Edge” magazine, go outside, get some color, and stop being such a bitch.

Yourself,

Me

P.S. Wrestling is fake, and they all take steroids. Keep lifting weights, but lower your expectations. Douche.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, May 14th, 2008 at 2:09 pm and is filed under (d)Anger, Clownshoes. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.