This blog is about you:
You’re a year past being “legal.” You have the world before you. You may be in college or already working. You may be single or already married, but you probably have some options. The world is just beginning to expect things of you. Then one night you’re walking home to your apartment. Your friends went their way and you went yours. It’s a calm, fall evening, and all you’re worried about is how long it will take to cook those pizza rolls at home in your microwave. You hear a noise behind you and turn to see a guy (insert your own gender if you like) in clothes very similar to the ones you’re wearing. You think he looks like a loser, a wannabe. “It’s me,” he says. “I’m you, from the future.” “I don’t have any money,” you reply. “Please go mug somebody else.” He purses his lips. “I know you don’t. We never carried cash, did we? And your debit card from Chase bank probably has just enough funds for gas to get to work until your direct deposit lands Friday.” You look offended. A lot of people probably have Chase bank debit cards and you definitely have enough for gas and a meal as long as “we eat somewhere cheap.” “So what do you want then?” you ask. “Please don’t rape me. I’m no fun in bed.” He laughs. “I know. And when Vicky tells you that, don’t get mad at her. She’s right.” He looks pensive. “It would’ve never worked with her, though. Remember that. Anyway, you’ll get better at sex, but it’s not until you’re too ugly for it to impress anyone.” You take off running, hoping to catch this loony off guard as he’s monologuing about your supposed future but he catches your arm. “I knew you were going to do that,” he says. “I would’ve. Come on, let’s head back to your apartment, share some pizza rolls and talk about a few things.” You let him lead you, not knowing if robbery or rape are truly off the table or not. Inside the apartment, he plops down on the couch and it’s strangely reminiscent. Like it’s the exact action you would’ve taken if you didn’t have a crazy person already in your spot. So you stand awkwardly, not knowing what to do with your hands like you’re being interviewed on live TV. “You gonna make those pizza rolls or are you gonna starve us both?” he asks. “If you really expect me to believe that you’re me from the future, I should probably have a salad.” He rubs his chin. “You could, but it’s really your mid-twenties where it gets you. Have a salad then. That’s my first piece of advice.” You lean your arm on the wall, your mouth salivating for pizza rolls now, but you don’t dare to act. “So, you’re here to give me advice, huh? That’s it?” “Yep.” “Well, let me give you some, stop wearing the same clothes you did when you were nineteen. Damn, you look stupid. Are those the same jean shorts? I swear I have that pair in my dresser.” He looks down. “Could be. Now, make some rolls or come sit down. You’re stressing me out standing there.” You eye him for a few seconds, then slump down in an old chair you got from work when they were getting rid of it. You realize as you sit that you’ve never used it since you dragged it up the stairs six months ago, only guests had. It’s horribly uncomfortable but you’re not getting back up now. “I’m not in the mood for pizza rolls.” He shrugs. “Yeah, I probably shouldn’t have them either. They tear up my stomach now. That happens around thirty, by the way.” “This is awesome advice you’re giving me. Eat a salad at twenty-five. Stop eating pizza rolls at thirty. Great, anything else?” “Hmm.” He picks up a red and white envelope from your dirty coffee-table. “Is Netflix stock super expensive yet?” “Huh, I don’t know, I don’t own any stock.” “You probably should, and start with Netflix if you can. I’m pretty sure Apple, and Microsoft are a little out of your league already.” He shakes his head as he drops the envelope back on the table. “Seriously, Dumb and Dumber, again? It’s on TBS every week-night.” “Don’t have cable. Or did you forget that?” “I--” “You know a couple things but you don’t know it all.” “Yes I do, and you don’t want to play this game. I know your deepest fears.” “Try me, bitch.” He leans forward like a mob boss who's just been challenged. “You’re afraid to pee in public. You always pick a stall and wait ‘til the bathroom clears. Pooping? Out of the question. You just got home too, meaning you probably are holding back a big old turd right now, aren’t you?” “Shut up.” You feel your stomach gurgle. “Nope, you asked for it. Your favorite movie is A Clockwork Orange, or so you tell people, you’ve actually only seen it once and you fell asleep. That being said, you’ve seen Anaconda more times than I care to count.” “Okay, okay, shit, stop. Is this fun for you? Torturing yourself?” “A little. Maybe we’re a masochist.” “We’re not.” “Yeah, you’re right.” He looks at you for a little too long, like if you were sitting next to him he’d kiss you. “What?” “Just weird is all. Like looking into a mirror.” “A cracked one from this end and what the hell happened to my hair?” He rubs his head. “Ah, I don’t know. Just starts thinning close to thirty. Hey, that reminds me, skip the Rogaine. You get like three pubic-looking hairs growing on your head and a bunch on your hand that take years to make go away.” You’re laughing now, glad you at least kept your sense of humor. He continues, “Doesn’t matter anyway, when you meet her, you still have your hair.” “Her?” “Yep.” “What’s her name? Do I know her now?” “No way am I ruining that surprise. You’ll know, though. Probably by the third date.” “So, it’s not Vicky.” He gives you a disappointed look. “Yeah, yeah, I know,” you say. He looks at his phone, a huge flat-screened thing almost as big as your laptop. “Shit, we’ve only got a few minutes.” “What do you mean?” “Nevermind. So, uh… Now I’ve gotta say something good.” You can see him start to sweat. “Just chill, me.” “Okay, okay. So, Netflix, I already said that. Consider putting some of your beer and video game budget into a retirement plan. They offer it through work, stop pretending like they don’t. What else? Don’t sweat the petty people. They’re just unhappy with the way their lives are going. Do something nice for them and see if it pulls them out of their funk. If they still treat you bad, move on. Call you mom. She just likes to hear from you. Lay off the processed food. Everyone is obese in my time.” You see his face, your face, starting to fade, like he’s stepping into a thick fog. “Um, hey, are you leaving me?” He looks down at his hands. “I think so." He reaches out his fingers. "Mr. Stark, I don’t feel so good.” “What does that mean?” “You’ll see, eventually.” He looks down again and his voice sounds further away. “Damn, this is it buddy. Take some piano lessons, would ya?” “Why?” “I’d just like to know how to play. If you start now…” You just stare at the fading picture as his last words are barely audible. “Love every minute you have with her. Don’t forget that. Don’t forget…” “What are you saying? What does that mean?” You reach out, but he’s not there. Your apartment is silent and empty. What would you tell your 19 Y/O self? Comment at the top.
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AuthorScott writing the things that come into his head. Archives
January 2021
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