To My Eighteen-Year-Old Self

(inspired by Brenda Shaughnessy)

It's okay: let yourself agonize over whether or not you love him. You
don't, but it will be a while before you wonder that again, and next time
it won't be about a boy. Getting into Brown is not the end-all that you 
think it is. It might have been a fast track to becoming me but you and
I both prefer the scenic route, with its menace of cliffs and switch-
backs. Take it. Stay in touch with Ja-Nay who sings for tips with you
at Coldstone's, the one who you avoid because of her texts about Grey Goose
and the way she looks good in a button-up shirt. Loosen up. Stop cultivating 
laziness like its a virtue. Stop sleeping through Calculus with Mr. Kohl
just because you can. He has Asperger's, you know. Stop seeking attention 
by making yourself throw up in the locker room after lunch. You're truly
too sneaky and no one else knows. For god's sake. Be sneaky about something 
lustrous like love or whiskey. For god's sake, make your senior speech less serious.
Even you won't understand it until three years later, floating in Lake Michigan,
testing out your will to live.  For god's sake keep it light. Also, please save
all those emails you send back and forth with that boy you don't love and 
your best friend so that I can analyze them for signs of insincerity and a 
stifled crush, respectively. Respectfully, tell your dad to fuck himself when 
he doesn't let you visit Wesleyan. Visit anyways so even if you don't go you
have a postcard of who you could have been (or would've become
sooner.)  Keep skipping class to read Cormac McCarthy. It's about the only
thing that you'll find interesting about yourself five years from now.