Oh, Younger Self,
What a crazy kid you are. Some might think that all hope is lost for you and that you might not make it past your preteen years, but I know better. You see, young Nikita, I am you—later in life—so I would say that I am a pretty trustworthy source. So heed my warnings—they will make life exponentially less painful for you.
Even though your parents will let you ride a full-size four-wheeler when you’re five, don’t try to race your older brother on it. You will wreck, skin your face on the pavement, get six stitches in your eyebrow, and spend a few nights in the hospital. And the worst part of it all will be that you have to wear Greg’s ugly button-down boy shirts. (Fortunately, your Baby Bop balloon will make it a little better.)
Moving on to when you’re seven: Don’t dance too close to the edge of that stage. You will fall off—face first—and have to get six stitches in your chin.
When you’re riding in that two-seater go-kart and your friend is trying to talk you into letting her drive, don’t listen. She will wreck it, causing you to break your elbow and get eight stitches in your arm.
When you come back to the house after getting in a wreck on a motorcycle, don’t listen to Mom—you will need stitches.
When the river freezes over and you think it would be cool to walk as far as you can on it, don’t. You will fall through the ice … and there will be paramedics involved. Don’t blame it on the dog, either—that will be really lame of you, and nobody will buy it anyway. Look at you—you’re soaking wet.
I doubt you will take any of this advice, and twenty stitches, two broken bones, and a few hundred scars later, I’ll be writing this letter to your reckless ass.
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