stop saying 'I'm missing you' when you really wanna shout 'I'm forgetting you'

so here's a draft of a letter to my old self

first and foremost 

translation in the voice of mallory yr big sis

"you are funny just at the wrong times"

the kids at schools aren't celebrities,
so please don't treat them like hot shit.

run them over with questions
"what do you know about george bush's origins?"
"how many cows fit in a barn?"
"what shade of pink is your strand of hair?"
"how do you tell each other apart?"

but then calm down and realize that you too wished you could've walked hand in hand with the twins in the parent trap and blend into their hand me down clothes and raised eyebrows.

fitting in is not a good word

i prefer the idea that when velvet becomes popular and a kid wears pants and skirts only made of this material, you latch on a bit, starting out with a bow or headband, going deeper with velveteen shoes. why not try to mimic their moves. but less like a mockingbird and more like a fan, you are just searching for a familiar role model. 6th graders look up to 7th and so on. The ones you see everyday are more available than the kids reflected to your inspiration part of the brain everytime you watch "icarly" or some mtv show late at night. i mean what are the chances?

but what you're really doing is killing the amoebas that only survive off of things mundane that are hidden behind sock drawers, and dug out every christmas eve, memoirs of your life are more important, than the choppy haircut you begged your parent for and 4th grade picture day photos that people have yet to uncover.

holding onto the parts that make you feel like your name to a t,
that what I would tell you to make a priority (stupid rhymes!!!)

anyways i'll end with this

my hands are like needy narwhals
and numb noses
a little bit preocupied with the snowflakes, and the elf tht just left (if you get this ref. i love you)
but phishfood is for humans,
and clean your room at 2am so stress stays beneath the covers
and thirty years later you find it wrapped up in a rubber band ball
in the 3rd drawer of your desk
wilting like a flower
but still pumping 
in two's 
some sort of breath. 


and so on and so forth,
casey