Dear 16-year-old me,
Sigh. We have a lot to talk about. The good news is that none of the things that used to bother you matter in the slightest. The bad news is a bunch of your friends won’t last until after prom.
You used to worry a lot about whether boys would ever like you. It might be hard to hear this, but there’s a lot more to life than that. When you wear makeup now, it’s not to impress anyone. It’s because you like putting it on.
And stop worrying - geez, you didn’t stop, ever. I admire your work ethic, but I don’t appreciate the grey hair.
It definitely doesn’t seem like it now, but you will get everything you wanted. It may have taken six years, but you can finally call yourself a writer - and you’re paid for it, too! And don’t worry, you WILL quit your job in fast food. It’ll take a while, and all your friends will quit before you, but your turn will come. You’ll get a cake on your last day.
Also, in two years, you’re going to fall in love with a boy from math class. I know, I didn’t see it coming either. Big plus: he loves it when you wear pajamas.
I remember how different you felt sometimes. The way you’d be the only one who wouldn’t laugh at crude jokes, or understand the necessity of rolling up your uniform skirt (which you never bothered to buy). Why were you the only one who thought a boy might like you for being smart and funny instead of “pretty”? Well, it turns out you’re quite the feminist. That’s right - there’s a word for it and a university that is full of people like you. You’re going to love it.
One more thing: you hate your small boobs now, but that won’t last. They make shopping a lot easier than you imagine.
Anyway, don’t sweat it. You’re doing just fine.
Sincerely,
You, 6 years in the future