Complex Numbers

Dear Me

Normally, writing a letter to a 15-year-old would get me put on a List somewhere.

PROMPT July 21st

Write a letter to your fifteen-year-old self.

But, I suppose since it's me, I should be safe.

Dear Shit-For-Brains,

Don't take it personally. Every fifteen-year-old has shit for brains.

I suppose I could warn you about some things that are coming up, but then you'd avoid them and I wouldn't be me. Besides, you're fifteen and you won't listen anyway.

Just you do you and everything will turn out okay, until it doesn't.

You will be shocked to know that you live (at least) almost halfway into your fifties. Don't let that go to your head.

Speaking of heads, despite what everyone's telling you, you won't go bald before you're 30. In fact, our hair is currently longer than it's ever been. I could tell you why, but you wouldn't believe me.

They finally finished Star Wars. So there's that to look forward to. Eh... sort of.

When you read this, it's 1981, and you think Ronald Reagan is the worst possible president. That's cute.

Oooh. Music is going to suck for the next 12 years. Except for Springsteen, of course.

Yes, it's now 2020. You're expecting flying cars, underwater cities, and missions to other star systems. What you'll get is secret police, mass surveillance, and -- you're really not going to believe this one -- we haven't even been back to the moon.

We have a few robots on Mars, though, and they haven't enslaved us yet.

Oh, and whatever you do, don't ***CENSORED BY ORDER OF TIME POLICE***

Say hi to Mom and Dad for me.

Regards,
Shit-For-Brains
(some things never change)