deeplyshallow // re: dear self

re: dear self

Hi. How are you? You are fine.

I just got your letter of two years ago today. I had completely forgotten about it, just as you suggested I should. But it concerned me. You sound miserable, past self. Is it because of the insomnia? Rest assured that it’s still around, two years later. I’m dealing with it, just like you always have. Stop whining.

I’m pleased to announce that things have improved since the last time we spoke. When you wrote, you were still living in Washington, stuck working for people who didn’t appreciate you, and still a thousand miles away from some girl you had gone and fallen for. Well, you’ve cut that distance by nine hundred miles, so congratulations. And what’s more, you’re working for yourself, which means you’re almost always appreciated.

Here’s where things stand at the moment:

Right now I’m re-reading The Andromeda Strain (have run out of things to read). After five or six reads it gets pretty boring. You should probably give it away or something so I can stop doing this. I envy you, actually; you’ve still got plenty of great reading ahead of you. You haven’t even touched The Time-Traveler’s Wife yet, and I think you’re just about to begin reading The Last Samurai. Oh, and the last couple of Dark Tower books are still ahead of you, so there’s that to look forward to. I could spoil the ending for you, but I won’t. Let’s just say there isn’t one. (You’ll see.)

I fixed your car, by the way. Well, not really. I sold it, and now I drive something else. You were never going to get around to it, so somebody had to get it done.

Here’s a little bad news: You stopped writing. You got a lot of good stuff out before you did, but Eleanor’s still in suspended animation. We’re going to have to work on ourself a bit. I’m thinking two months away, an isolated cabin, a lake (complete with spectacular sunrise), and no access to the internet. Sound good? Don’t we wish.

You’re an inquisitive sonofabitch. Good thing I’ve got nothing better to be doing right now. Anyway, to answer your questions:

Where am I today? I assume you mean big-picture, not small-picture, but I’ll give you both. Big picture: I’m in California. Small picture: I’m sitting on the orange couch you’re not going to buy for a few months yet. A word of advice: these cushions suck. And get some stain remover, because there’s an unfortunate accident involving your cousin and a bottle of beer in its future.

What am I driving? I bought your parents’ Ford Expedition. Here’s another piece of advice: Don’t buy it, okay? Or if you do, trade it in immediately for a Golf or something. Because those gas prices that are making you cry right now? You ain’t seen nothing yet, bucko.

Have I gotten rid of the scruffy goatee-thing? Sort of. It spread. Now it’s a scruffy beard-thing. Yep, that’s right. You can finally grow a beard. Life is good.

How many am I? I am this many. (Imagine me holding up twenty-seven fingers.)

Where do I work? Already answered this. Moving along.

What am I reading? Ditto. Geez, man.

Did I gain a hundred pounds? Not exactly. Remember how hard you worked to lose sixty pounds a few months before you wrote the letter? Yeah, well, try not to forget how you did that, because it wasn’t the last time.

I should get back to what I was doing now, so you take care. I’ll leave you with a few things you can look forward to: For one, there is much pain in your future. But believe me, it’s worth it. And there’s one really shitty day you might try to avoid. But on the other hand, you’ve still got Serenity and a 3,000-mile road trip to look forward to, and you’ll never guess what movie opens next week. I’m not even going to tell you, so don’t ask. Trust me, you’d just go on being miserable for the next two years.