During a weekend trip to California (the one I wrote about a couple posts back), I decided to go through some old boxes I've been storing at home. In one of the boxes I found a sealed, yellowing envelope, folded in half, with the these words scrawled on the front: "Do not open till 2004 AD. Written 1994 AD."
I checked my watch. Lo and behold, it was exactly 2004 AD and I now had permission to open this mysterious envelope. I only vaguely remember writing it. As I recall, a sunday school instructor asked my class to write to ourselves ten years in the future. I believe he told us to include our thoughts, dreams, aspirations and whatnot so that our wiser, matured self could see how far we'd come.
I'm sure the Sunday School teacher didn't expect anyone to follow through. It's one of those things you assign because they take up class time and because you forgot to prepare a REAL lesson.
But here the envelope was, ten years aged, just waiting for me to open it. My expectations were high. I was a fairly articulate 14-year-old, I thought. I've always enjoyed writing. Surely I was in for a treat. Instead, I was met with the following:
My Sunday school teacher told us to write a letter to ourselves and read it in 10 years. There isn't much to say. Most everything there is to know about me is in my journal. In 10 years I want to be a designer or an architect. Those jobs sound neat. Well actually since I'm going on a mission, I'll still be in college in 10 years. Oh well. Bye!
--Jeremy Munns, 14 years old
What the?! What kind of drivel was this? I could have kept dog droppings in an envelope for 10 years for all the good this letter did me. For one thing, I never kept a journal, so I was obviously lying. This led me to one undeniable conclusion: My past self was playing a prank on my present self. What a little punk!
I've decided that revenge is in order. But since time machines have not yet been invented, my past self is off-limits. So the only sensible course of action is to instead get revenge on my FUTURE self. Ten years from now, when he finds a yellowing envelope, he will think: "Oh yeah, I remember this. What great knowledge will I discover about who I was in my mid-twenties?" He will rip at the envelope, eager fingers fumbling to get the notebook paper unfolded. And this is what he will read:
Dear Jeremy (you old fart),
By now you're 34. How does it feel? I bet you never thought you'd end up being a friendless, bald, wandering hippie, did you? There isn't much to say. Most everything there is to know about me you wouldn't understand, with all the brain damage from the heroine and all. Oh Well, Bye!
--Jeremy Munns, 24 years old.
That will make him feel real dumb. "What a sarcastic little jerk of a 24 year old I was," he'll think. "Why did I even bother?" Then he will crumple the envelope in his fist, adjust his thinning comb-over, and walk with his rainbow-colored napsac into the sunset.