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Dear 16 year old me,

I hate these things. The entire concept of ‘what would you tell some past version of yourself if you could’ is like seventeen satchels of bullshit in a hatchback on an Arizona highway. Seriously. Dear Past Me: you happened. It turned out fine. You’re great in the future and shit is still shit, but you’re fine. Dear Me Right Now: don’t go on a writing prompter and pick the topic that annoys you the most. asshat.

Love,

Me

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