A Letter to My 16-Year-Old Self

Dear Kid,

More than a few people seem to be writing to their past selves these days, and usually, their message is filled with encouragement, fuzzy optimism, and schmaltz about following dreams. We’re having none of that.

First things first: get the entirety of this letter tattooed on your back immediately. Use your limbs too, if needed. If I know anything about you at all, I know you’re prone to losing stuff (lovers, car keys, the ends of sentences), and I promise you, you don’t want to forget any of this missive.

Ok, next. What year is it there? 1976? Good, you’ve got plenty of time until Thursday, Aug. 19, 2004. That’s when I want you to sell everything you own. Your decrepit Honda Civic. Your prized Batman comic collection. Your mp3 player. You name it, you sell it. And liquidate every dime of your savings. Trust me on this; you can live in a cardboard box for a year and wear a trash bag. It’ll build character. Put your entire worth into a weird little stock that very day. It’ll be called GOOG. Don’t laugh; it’s not a character from Dr. Seuss. It’s, um, how to put this? It’s a thingy that searches the— It’s a company that’s at the forefront of artificial int— It’s working on quantum computing with these little qubits that can be either— oh, never mind. Just do it.

You didn’t do it, did you? You little shitbird. Instead, you bought that yellow Mustang from your cousin for $600, because you coveted those black bucket seats and thought it’d be a chick magnet. Well, let me tell you something, bub, tying a solenoid back on by using a bootlace is not a good look on you. Not to mention that it’s a truly Rube Goldberg fix which, as it turns out, is also flammable.

Don’t lie and say you forgot. I’m looking at our tattoo right now. The letters GOOG are right there on our left clavicle, plain as day. You know how else I know you didn’t do it? Because I’m not a gazillionaire today. You’re killing me, Smalls.

Let’s try something simpler. Don’t sleep with that senior named C in your freshman year at Swarthmore. Sure, it’ll be flattering the way she chases you around after you play Walter Mitty in the drama department’s performance of A Thurber Carnival. But if you look closer, you’ll see has a slight mustache and outweighs you by around 100 pounds. Just the right weight, by the way, to accidentally fling you from her futon during a particularly athletic session. Trust me, there’s a ton of little bones in your foot and they’re far more fragile than you know.

Wait, you didn’t follow my advice, did you, you horny meerkat? You know how I know? By the twinge in my big toe just now. You really aren’t making this any easier for me.

Ok, let’s re-examine our tattoo. Right around the midriff. Dates, numbers, places, all in crystal clarity. Read them with me.

DON’T PRETEND YOU KNOW HOW TO DOWNHILL SKI JUST TO IMPRESS L IN THE FRENCH ALPS ON TUESDAY…


BUY POWERBALL TICKETS ON THE FOLLOWING DATES WITH THE CORRESPONDING NUMBERS…

DO NOT SMOKE THAT FIRST MARLBORO ULTRALIGHT AT THE EAGLES CONCERT ON…

ALWAYS READ THE BEST-BY-DATE ON SUSPICIOUS-LOOKING COTTAGE CHEESE…

REMEMBER, SWANS BITE.

HERE’S THE ENTIRE DESIGN PATENT FOR WHAT WILL BECOME THE ROOMBA.

On and on it goes. Useful, actionable, specific advice inked on every surface of your body. Solid warnings and recommendations that would have made you (eventually) and me (today) filthy rich, sexually irresistible, famous as a Kardashian, happy as a Pikachu. But could you be bothered? No, you could not.

You were too busy trying to rack up the score on a Fireball pinball machine without hitting tilt. Puffing on that one joint laced with god knows what in the Days Inn in San Francisco. Checking out R as she offered jersey samples at Hickory Farms in the Shartsville Mall. Proposing for your first marriage. On and on it goes.

I’m not even sure why I’m bothering to write you this letter, you dozy turd. I’ve got a fresh swan bite on my ankle; I’m chain-smoking Marlboros; the balance in my checking account is anemic as a vampire’s prey. And I’ve got this stupid tattoo all over me.

You’ll make me the laughingstock at the retirement home.

I know this to be true because I got a letter from our 92-year-old self yesterday. And he’s plenty pissed.