Smeagol is Free!
A hermitudinal view of...stuff...


Open Letter

Dear 30 Year-Old Self,

In approximately one year, when another silvery-white hair or five will have gained greater prominence on your head and you only-kind-of-jokingly begin to look for the phrase, "Inflate to 90 PSI Max" stamped onto the side of your waist, you will hopefully have adopted and followed-through on at least one of the following mid-year resolutions: stretching more thoroughly and regularly; eating a little less cinnamon ice cream from Homemade Ice Cream and Pie Kitchen and running a little more; getting to bed before midnight; and calling your mother at least...well...just call her, darn it!

I do realize that the likelihood of you doing all of those is quite laughable, which is why I, your 29 Year-Old Self, am hoping that you will have accomplished at least one. I leave it at that. No more, but hopefully, no less. My tight right hamstring and wind-sucking respiratory system are in league with my circulatory system -- which seems to be threatening to go on strike -- to get you happier, even if it means my temporary misery. Regardless of my body's grumbling, you, at the very least, should have learned to call your mother.

I suppose that's really my responsibility, though, isn't it? Darn.

Your 29 Year-Old Self

posted by Bolo | 9:44 PM
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