A letter from May 22, 2025

Dear Future Me, I can’t believe you’re 45. You are so old. Like, “should probably stretch before standing up” old. Hopefully by now you’ve gotten your **** together. Financially stable? Emotionally semi-okay? Ideally not still doing the same dumb crap you’re doing now? I really hope you’re not the same idiot you were at the time of writing this. Growth, please. Therapy maybe? Water and vegetables, perhaps? Also—shoutout to ChatGPT for helping me put this together, because obviously I needed help writing a letter to myself. Classic. Anyway, if you’re reading this and you’ve managed to survive the chaos, I’m proud of you. If you haven’t… well, that’s on us. Good luck, Me (before the joint pain kicked in)