Open Letter to My Seventh-Grade Self

Let's get things straight right off the bat. "Satellite" by The Dave Matthews Band is not the best song ever recorded and, yes, that also applies to the Red Rocks version. Mr. Matthews' insidious laid back mix of Afro-acoustic onanism and frat boy grunting is a diabolical brew for your naive musical tastes. Please Michaels, I implore you to never use the phrase that "Dave and Tim bootleg" or any combination thereof in a social setting. In hindsight, it would have been better to stay with "Dookie" and the like. Moving on. Yes, you are tall and gangly. Now you will continue to be tall and gangly. That metamorphosis into a chiseled, bronzed, cyborg-like hunk you always thought was just around the corner is still in its planning stage. However, your mannicured bouffant will retroactively make you look like a North Korean dictator. You are the center of a personality cult. Take this as solace for your general hideousness. Athletics. Despite the fact you have a negative vertical leap and a seventh grade season high of fifteen points, you somehow continue to entertain the idea of an NBA career. Take up a hobby ASAP, like origami or smoking. As for high-school, your vision of it as a Bacchanalian orgy will be pretty much spot on. Cigarettes will be smoked. Liquor will be stolen from cabinets and chicks will be tongued. Hell yeah!!!