Sunday, February 8, 2015

Excuse me

Please excuse the following post.

This post is for me in five days, or two months, or six years down the road. I decide. 

You little fucker. 
Here you are six years after you started this damn thing, still writing at Starbucks. 
Haven't you realized that if you just became a gold card member you would get free chai every two weeks? 
Haven't you realized that going to Starbucks at 3pm on a Sunday is the worst idea ever! There are always no seats, and it's crowded as hell. Learn something! 

Girl, you are crazy! Remember that time you jumped out of a plane, and then did it again two months later? 

Girl,  remember that time you said stick that needle into my body and ink me? Leanne read mom's journal entries, and we laughed at the boys that called her. Leanne held your hand and you squeezed so hard. You can't take any pain. Pain scares the shit out of you. You scare yourself out of experiences just because of pain. Change that. 

Girl, smack that smirk off of your face. Remember that letter you found the other day that said open January 1, 2009? You laughed your ass off because you wrote this hilarious letter to yourself when you were 14. It said you should either be married or living in Europe. Boy did you have great dreams, and boy did you get married. Maybe one too many times. Or maybe not one enough times. Who the hell knows. 

Girl, I hope you grew the hell up. Stopped dreaming of a what if, or a could have been, and start living in reality. Take a look at your life and figure out what is real, what is not, what is obtainable, what is your passion, what is important. 

Girl, remember that time you walked out on your then love and called your sister with tears down your face screaming "I can't do this anymore!" She walked you in and out of your hard times. Don't forget that. 

Girl, remember that time you looked at Leanne and told her you were going to do x,y, and z? Remember when she hugged you crying because you did x,y, and z? She told you good job for actually sticking to your guns, for not giving a shit about the always listening, and for being the daughter she lost. Girl, you better remember that. 

Girl, you better remember to love yourself the way that others love you.

Girl, you better remember to keep writing. One day I expect notebooks filled, a book of poems covered with your most inspirational and disgusting moments, notes taken in the margins of your favorite books, and a long list of people who loved to read your writing. 

Meg, I expect a lot. Remember, remember. Just be. So it goes. 

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