Dear “Fifteen-Year-Old-Me” . . .

YOU MADE IT THROUGH
MIDDLE SCHOOL.
CONGRATULATIONS.
THE WORST IS
BEHIND YOU NOW.
IT GETS BETTER FROM HERE.
THERE’S SO MUCH
AHEAD OF YOU.
SO MUCH TO EXPLORE . . .

　　What the fuck are you doing?

What?

　　What are you doing?

I’m writing a letter to “me-at-fifteen.”

　　Why?

It’s fun.

　　It’s stupid . . .

It is not . . .

　　Yeah it is . . .

Why is it stupid?

　　Well, right off the top of my head?
　　Uhhh . . . you’ll never get it?
　　“Fifteen-Year-Old-You” will never get it!

I know I’ll never get it --
it’s just a creative writing assignment.

　　No, see . . . that might make sense
　　if it was “Fifteen-Year-Old-You”
　　writing to “Almost-Forty-Three-
　　Year-Old-You.” That might be
　　worth something. This is just dumb.

Fine. I’m aware of your opinion.
But I’m doing this, so . . . okay?

　　Whatever . . .

SO MUCH TO EXPLORE . . .
THE THINGS THAT YOU’LL WRITE!
THE THINGS YOU’LL DO!
THE THINGS THAT YOU’LL LEARN
THAT MAKE YOU YOU!
THE TIME WITH YOUR FRIENDS . . .

　　What the hell --
　　are you writing a fucking musical?!

What?

　　What the hell is this?

It’s a first draft.

　　It’s a pile of crap.

It is not!

　　Please --
　　Bo Burnham would hand you your ass.

Shut up!

　　You want a better start to your song?
　　Try this:

　　“Dear Fifteen-Year-Old-Me”

　　IT’S THE YEAR
　　TWENTY-SEVENTEEN,
　　AND I WANT YOU TO KNOW
　　THAT THEY STILL HAVEN’T
　　gotten around to inventing time travel
　　so you’re never going to get
　　this stupid letter . . .
　　
Okay, that’s enough. Just stop.

　　Why? Are you done being stupid?

No! I’m not being stupid!
It’s just a creative writing exercise!
Who cares if I’ll never actually get it . . .
It’s fun to imagine fifteen-year-old-me
reading it.

　　So this is just an act of imagination.

Yeah.

　　Like a parallel universe.

Maybe.

　　Where time-traveling letters are axiomatic?

All right . . .

　　No, no, it’s okay, I can work with that.
　　Let’s try that letter again.

　　“Dear Self” . . .

　　I KNOW EV’RYTHING ABOUT YOU.
　　BECAUSE I AM YOU . . .

Okay . . .

　　I KNOW WHEN YOU
　　WERE FIFTEEN
　　YOU HADN’T HAD
　　THIS THOUGHT YET.
　　BUT IF IT GETS INVENTED,
　　DON’T LET THEM
　　TELEPORT YOU.
　　‘CAUSE ON THAT END
　　THEY’LL CREATE YOU,
　　BUT ON THIS END
　　IT WILL KILL YOU.

　　AND THAT GUY WILL GO OFF.
　　HE’LL THINK YOUR THOUGHTS.
　　HE’LL HAVE YOUR
　　MEMORIES AND BRAIN.
　　HE’LL LIVE YOUR LIFE.
　　HE’LL LOOK JUST LIKE YOU.
　　WHILE ON YOUR END,
　　YOU’LL BE DEAD.
　　HE’LL LIVE YOUR LIFE.
　　HE’LL MEET YOUR FRIENDS.
　　HE’LL FUCK YOUR WIFE;
　　ENJOY HER BLOWJOBS . . .

Okay hold it -- hold it!
Why are you telling this
to a fifteen-year-old?

　　Oh, sorry -- no.
　　That letter wasn’t to him.
　　That letter was to you.

What?

　　Yeah.

Why?

　　‘Cause I’m trying to save your life.

What?!

　　(Our life . . .)

What are you talking about?

　　Well -- in a world where
　　time-traveling letters exist,
　　it’s real easy for an idiot like you
　　to kill yourself, or . . . wink yourself
　　out of existence, or kill off
　　your timeline or something.
　　
What?!

　　Okay -- here. Imagine this:

　　I JUST GOT A LETTER.
　　IT CAME FROM THE FUTURE
　　WHEN I’M IN MY FORTIES.
　　I READ IT THIS MORNING.
　　IT SAYS THAT I’M AWESOME.
　　THE WORST IS BEHIND ME.
　　I’M SUCH A GOOD PERSON!
　　MY LIFE IS FANTASTIC!
　　SO I’M GONNA COAST NOW.
　　I’M JUST GONNA FAKE IT,
　　SECURE IN THE KNOWLEDGE
　　THAT I’M GONNA MAKE IT.
　　AND THIRTY YEARS LATER,
　　YOU WON’T RECOGNIZE ME,
　　‘CAUSE I’LL BE A DOUCHEBAG,
　　and you won’t exist any more . . .

Why do you have to be like this?

　　Change something in the past,
　　you create a new timeline,
　　which might mean the end
　　of your timeline.

You know you’ve taken
all the fun out of this . . .

　　All the fun out of what?
　　Your self-indulgent, masturbatory
　　gedanken experiment? Was this
　　just for you, or were you going to
　　share this sad little song with others?

Maybe . . .

　　Oh! This just gets better and better!
　　What makes you think that people
　　would want to listen to some showtune
　　where a guy performs the meaningless
　　act of dispensing vacuous wisdom
　　across three decades to a younger
　　version of himself whose future is now
　　already predetermined? I mean, the
　　least you could do is respect everyone’s
　　time and just distill your life into a
　　mercifully brief haiku:

　　　　I’ve built my whole life
　　　　on advantages I won
　　　　in a lottery.

You’re an ass.

　　Doesn’t mean I’m wrong.
　　If you want to share your
　　reflections on your life with
　　a wider audience, at least
　　make it something meaningful
　　and resonant.

Can we just stop now?

　　No. You started this -- let’s do it.
　　Here’s the song you should write . . .

　　WHEN YOU’RE THIRTY-FOUR
　　YOU’LL DO SOME STUPID SHIT
　　AND SPRAIN YOUR ANKLE.
　　AND THEN YOU’LL
　　QUICKLY LEARN
　　YOUR ARMS HAVE MUSCLES
　　THAT YOU NEVER KNEW
　　WERE THERE.

　　AND FOR TWO WEEKS
　　ON YOUR CRUTCHES,
　　YOU’LL NO LONGER
　　BE AS ABLE
　　AS YOU WERE.
　　AND YOU’LL GET A
　　TINY GLIMPSE OF
　　WHAT A PERSON
　　WHO’S DISABLED MUST
　　ENDURE.

　　BUT THE OTHER
　　NINETY-NINE-POINT-NINE
　　PERCENT OF YOUR EXISTENCE,
　　YOU WON’T HAVE TO THINK
　　ABOUT THESE THINGS
　　AT ALL . . .

　　YOU’RE SO LUCKY . . .

　　WHEN YOU’RE TWENTY-FIVE
　　YOU’LL JUST BE STARTING OUT.
　　A BRAND-NEW TEACHER.
　　AND YOU’LL BE
　　UNDERPAID.
　　AND YOUR FIRST PAYCHECKS
　　WON’T BE QUITE ENOUGH
　　TO SPARE.

　　AND FOR FOUR WEEKS
　　BUYING GROCERIES,
　　YOU’LL DEBATE HOW
　　MANY ITEMS
　　YOU CAN TAKE.
　　AND YOU’LL GET A
　　TINY SENSE OF
　　THE DECISIONS
　　THOSE IN POVERTY
　　MUST MAKE.

　　BUT THE OTHER
　　NINETY-NINE-POINT-EIGHT
　　PERCENT OF YOUR EXISTENCE,
　　YOU WON’T HAVE TO COUNT
　　YOUR POCKET CHANGE
　　AT ALL . . .

　　YOU’RE SO LUCKY . . .
　　
　　‘CAUSE YOU DIDN’T CHOOSE
　　YOUR NEIGHBORHOOD.
　　YOU DIDN’T CHOOSE
　　YOUR HOME.
　　YOU DIDN’T CHOOSE
　　YOUR PARENTS
　　OR YOUR FAM’LY.
　　SO THE THINGS YOU’VE BEEN
　　AFFORDED BY
　　YOUR FAM’LY
　　AND YOUR HOME
　　WERE KIND OF RANDOM . . .

　　LIKE A LOTTERY . . .

　　TO SEE HOW MUCH
　　FOOD YOU GET.
　　TO SEE HOW MUCH
　　LOVE YOU GET.
　　TO SEE HOW MUCH
　　ACCESS TO BOOKS,
　　MUSIC, ART,
　　EDUCATION,
　　OR SPORTS YOU GET.
　　TO SEE IF YOUR
　　STREETS WILL BE SAFE
　　OR YOUR HOME WILL BE SAFE
　　OR YOUR AIR WILL BE SAFE
　　OR YOUR WATER IS SAFE
　　OR YOUR COUNTRY IS SAFE
　　OR YOUR FAM’LY IS SAFE . . .

　　OR IF YOU
　　GET TO TRAVEL . . .
　　OR SEE DOCTORS
　　AND DENTISTS . . .
　　OR SPEAK MORE THAN
　　ONE LANGUAGE . . .
　　OR YOU GROW UP
　　WITH LOVE . . .

　　WHEN YOU’RE FIRST CONCEIVED,
　　A LOT OF WHO YOU’LL BE
　　IS PREDETERMINED.
　　AND FROM THE
　　DAY YOU’RE BORN,
　　YOUR LIFE GETS SHAPED BY
　　FORCES OUT OF YOUR
　　CONTROL.

　　AND FOR THOSE WHO
　　HIT THE JACKPOT,
　　YOU CAN LIVE YOUR
　　LIFE LIKE NOTHING’S
　　OUT OF PLACE.
　　YOU’LL JUST SOMETIMES
　　GET AN INKLING
　　OF WHAT THOSE WHO
　　WEREN’T AS LUCKY
　　HAVE TO FACE.

　　BUT THE OTHER
　　NINETY-NINE-POINT-SOME
　　PERCENT OF YOUR EXISTENCE,
　　YOU WON’T THINK ABOUT
　　THIS LOTTERY
　　AT ALL . . .

　　LIKE BEING TALL . . .
　　OR BEING HALE . . .
　　OR BEING WHITE . . .
　　OR BEING MALE . . .
　　OR BEING STRAIGHT . . .

　　FUCKING. LUCKY.

　　So whatever, dude.
　　I’ve said my piece.
　　Do what you’re gonna do . . .

< sigh >

YOU MADE IT THROUGH
MIDDLE SCHOOL.
CONGRATULATIONS.
THE WORST IS
BEHIND YOU NOW.

Yeah, okay, this is fuckin’ stupid . . .