For a few years now, writing letters to your “younger self” has been a thing — a ridiculous, navel-gazing thing, but a thing. Since I am a ridiculous, navel-gazing kind of guy, I figure I’m overdue.

Oh well. At least it’s better than planking. Remember planking? Or goats that scream like people? Sometimes, I weep for our species.

Anyway.

Dear Younger Self,

If you remember nothing else from this letter, please remember this: you are in for an interesting ride.

I don’t want to pass value judgments, but compared to most of the folks you grow up with, you will have a rock star life. Not Led-Zeppelin-rock-star, but maybe Courtney-Love-rock-star, or My-Brightest-Diamond-rock-star, or Huey Lewis on a very good day. (NB: This is in no way an endorsement of Huey Lewis.)

Here’s some advice about what’s coming:

• One afternoon during third grade, while your parents are away, you will sneak into your mother’s closet. You will find her high heels and her negligee and her makeup case. Roll with it.

• Around age 14, encouraged by your one and only gay classmate, you will discover that you like kissing boys. In fact, you like it A LOT. Then, your sole gay friend will move away, and you’ll try to play it straight for the next six years. Don’t bother. You’ll just end up hating yourself. And honestly, everyone already knows.

• Your parents will try to convince you that certain men in town like to molest young boys. Your parents think that all gay men like to molest young boys, which is absurd. Call them out on their homophobia (even though the word “homophobia” isn’t widely used yet). That non-child-molesting “child-molester” will be you someday. Continue reading