dear self:

i hope that you are happier when you get this, at least happier than you were when you wrote it, & i hope you had to work to make that happiness real -- because it will be worth it. i hope you have an apartment with wood floors and brick walls and the yellow kitchen you dream about. i hope that you are wearing warm socks and drinking something cold. i hope that you are in love, with something or someone or anything beautiful. i hope that you know a little bit more of what you want, but not everything, because that would ruin the fun of figuring it all out. i hope that one of your (our?) favourite songs is playing, and i hope that you're having a good hair day, even if everything else is going wrong. and i think the most important thing is that you realize that it's been two years today since the day you wrote this. you made it two more years, even when you thought you couldn't, and even if nothing else has come to you, at least you're still kicking and screaming and singing and crying and laughing and breathing and smoking and drinking and living, despite all desires to the contrary. you can do this. and if you're reading this right now, thinking back on who you were and how you felt when it was written, and feeling the same way -- know that if it's not okay, "it's not the end of the road for you" (the song you're listening to right now, it has that lyric. impeccable timing, i'd say). know that you can make it. know that anything is possible. i don't always like you, but i guess i'm stuck with you -- so i ought to make the best of it. and if you're reading this, cheers to nineteen, twenty-one, and beyond.