An Open Letter to Myself

What myself now would’ve told myself then..

21. It hasn’t even been a year since you’ve downed your first shot of Puerto Rican rum given to you by a boy who you’ll later discover to be an asshole. Remember when you were in high school and thought about all the wonders of dating? Well I wish I could’ve warned you about the one horror of men: they lie, & no, no matter how truthful they may sound, they lie! profusely. I also wish someone could’ve told you that you’d do really stupid things, like drink far above & beyond your alcohol limit, screw around with your own morals (a fine testament to who you will be), and get fucked over countlessly. But while you’ve learned to train yourself to become callous to regret, you always ended up hurting your own worth, & well, stop fucking doing that.

You’ll find out that getting ready for the club is much more fun than interacting with people at the club. You’ll discover that grinding on men is just about the least classy act & all those old fashioned values you thought you would so prospectively preach? Preach them now because they came to be true, that no matter how much you tried to explore the “I-won’t”s, you consistently went back to the “I-am”s. You’ll continue to doubt yourself for the rest of your life, because that is stupidly who you are, but if there’s one thing you will have learned from past failed hook-ups is that they’re simply that: hook-ups. You will also come to find out that every guy you will have involved yourself with will call you weird, but darling, don’t take it so harshly for ordinary is but possessing individuality and there is no way you’ll resort to ordinary. You will also have men from the past — friend or old flame — try to “rekindle” some imaginary friendship but let your legs do the talkin’.. no not in that way.. and start walkin’. You will want to cry over every single one of those men, boys, whatever.. ough, but don’t, don’t do it - let the next tear you shed be the one where you proudly walk down the aisle & this time a piece of tissue is not going to be the one catching your ridiculous salt infested tears, but the veil draping down your face and the hand of the man of whom will lift it see that only he is worth your tears. So enjoy those Friday nights, put on those heels, be the 6.0' monstrousity of the woman you were born to be (at least when compared to your friends..) and own up to your worth because any man seeking less than that, is not worth an ounce of your time.