A Letter to My 13 Year-Old Self

Dear thirteen year-old Britt, 

 

It’s been awhile since I’ve thought of you, but there are some things we should establish, since you’re in the throes of awkwardness and I thought you could maybe use a little light at the end of your pubescent tunnel. (No, that wasn’t a euphemism for vagina.)

Firstly, I’m pleased to announce that you finally figured out how to deal with your hair. I know it seemed like the undefeatable beast for most of your youth, but we pushed through and guess what? Afro Thunder is no longer.  (Don’t ask your present-day girlfriend, though. She’s seen you in the morning and you and I both know that’s when it’s at its finest state of ‘fro.) Oh ya, I guess I should also mention that you’re gay now. I know you wondered a little bit back then, but I can assure you that your five year fixation on Pat Waller was merely a schoolyard crush, and you are, without a doubt, a gaymo. Also, we don’t call people ‘gaymo’ anymore.

Secondly, I would like to congratulate you on growing out of your awkward, crooked, small, yellow teeth. It’s a miracle, really. For awhile there, things were looking pretty bleak for your not-so-pearly whites. I’m 93% sure the tooth fairy took a shining to you after you pulled your own teeth out on a regular basis, allowing her to prosper in her newfound, tooth-filled richness.  She did you a solid and let your teeth grow in nice and straight and not-so yellow. One of these days, I’ll start flossing regularly. Probably.

Remember that time when you got caught skipping school and shoplifting on the same day? That was a fucking awful day, wasn’t it?  You know what was even more awful? The outfit you chose to wear that day. I remember it clearly. You sported crushed velvet pants, that old purple and turquoise puffy jacket with floral lining… and the best possible sweatshirt of all time. Don’t look down in shame. That shit was legendary. I wish I still had that sweatshirt. It was (probably) from Northern Reflections, with little drawings of birds on it. Under each bird was a clever little name for the bird. That shit was pimp. The only thing that would have made it better would have been this vest: 

The security guards didn’t see you coming. In fact, I can even remember one of them saying “You don’t look like the type to shoplift…” That asshole had no idea who he was messing with. That $4.99 lipgloss should have been YOURS.  

The good news? We never got caught stealing stole again. Clean criminal record FTW!

You’ve also successfully avoided breaking any more bones. After the embarrassing stint when you broke your wrist doing a Backstreet Boys dance, you learned your lesson. You still continued to play the trumpet for two or three more years, but eventually learned that the guitar was a lot cooler. Ask any lesbian and they’ll tell you that singing and playing the guitar guarantees 75% more titties than the trumpet. Fact.

Without getting into great detail, there are a few more things I’d like for you to know.

#1 When you’re older, coming up with your own choreographed dances becomes much less ‘cool’. Also, your parents probably won’t come watch you do them in the attic anymore.

#2 Don’t shave your eyebrows. Ever.

#3 Glitter is best used in moderation. (With the exception of extra-gay events an/or Ke$ha concerts)

#4 Plaid pajama bottoms are not to be worn in public.

#5 Alcohol does get better the more you drink. Keep at it.

#6 If everyone hates the girl in your class for being a mean, angry bully, don’t try to befriend her and change her. This rarely works out and her newly-out-of-jail brother will come find you in the school yard to tell you you’re an ugly hoe.

#7 Locking yourself in the basement bathroom rarely accomplishes anything.

#8 When a boy punches you, it doesn’t mean he likes you. (WHADDUP Rihanna. Take some notes.)

#9 Things got much, much worse for Britney Spears. (But we love her anyway because she’s a sticky, hot mess.)

#10 Oh, and the world didn’t blow up with Y2K. What a fucking letdown.

One last thing before I let you go. I found your diary. You know the one I’m talking about. Quite frankly, I’m a little disappointed by the lack of juicy details. You mostly just sound like a boy-crazy kid with severe ADD. It was pretty hard to follow what the fuck you were trying to say. I think you misunderstood the concept of poetry.

I did, however, notice that you signed your name at the bottom of every entry and sometimes wrote a little secret or factoid that future-you would find interesting. I couldn’t help but notice you wrote:

My dream: To become a famous singer.

Well, I’m here today to tell you that you failed.

Keep up the good work. 

Love, 

Britt

P.S. You’re going to get 50% in math this year.  Get ready for the parental wrath.