Harry gets personal with Harry

Most of us were teenagers at some point.  Some of us still retain the noble quality well into our 30s.  I was unfortunate enough to burst forth from that glorious bubble of self-righteousness and utter ignorance into a huge world where I finally see all the errors of my past ways.  Ugh.  There’s some saying about how as you get older, you find you know less and less, and although it’s bullshit (it is utter bullshit, unless you spend your life un-learning things, so by the time you’re 50 you’ve forgotten how to tell the time) it has it’s place in the exact moment where one bursts forth from the faulty condom of teenagehood.

I miss being 17.  When life was simpler, and I didn’t worry about anything except getting laid, taking drugs and being cool.  I actually thought I knew everything I needed to know.  Life was figured out.  Totally.  I felt like the fucking king and I was untouchable and I was a fucking moron, but I didn’t know that until years later.  YEARS.  Without going into specific embarrasments (or specific misspellinks of words), I offer up advice to my past self in the hopes it can travel through time and fix a multitude of future problems.

Dear teenage self,

You’re a fucking dick.  Stop being a dick and read this letter you fucking penis.  I am writing you this letter to

1 – Take you down a peg or 50, you fucking corkscrew-cocked cockaninny

2 – Prevent a shitstorm you don’t even know is coming your way

3 – Impress people on the internet and be super-cool and popular, which you aren’t by the way


Do me a favour and get a fucking haircut?  You look fucking ridiculous.  No one is impressed that your hair can grow – their hair can grow as well, idiot.  Also, styling gel?  Really?  Are you trying to get into a gay nightclub, or is there something about looking like a Bart Simpson wannabe that gets you off?  Lose it.  Just try having normal hair, believe me you’ll be grateful in a few years.  And stop wearing hats when it isn’t even cold.  You look retarded.  Remember the only acceptable beach hat is made of straw, anything else will look like your mother picked it for you.  This is the UK, we don’t give a fuck about baseball, so wearing a baseball cap makes no sense, you cock lolly.


Next on the agenda, being good at smoking weed is not a fucking career plan.  Try spending your time a bit more productively.  Fucking please?  Future you has no fucking use for the ability to smoke thirty joints in a night, and future you is also subject to random drug testing.  I make awesome money, but weed is off the table in our future.  Maybe practice some kind of skill that allows you to have a career where you AREN’T subject to random drug screening?  I don’t know.  You should get those boring hours of practice in now, though, because if you can play wicked guitar at university you’ll be swimming in minge.  If you learn to box or do karate you can punch people who are cunts (believe me, you’ll meet plenty of them in the future and wish you’d practiced).  Think of the possibilities!  Stop being such a wastrel.  Stoners are actually the butt of jokes (pun intended), and you’re too monged to think of a comeback.  One time I had a fight with someone who was on ketamine.  I didn’t even have to touch him at all, I just moved gradually out of the way and he fell over.  That is what you are like right now, you useless cretin.  Do something.  Not philosophy.  Something useful, you arse-head.


Finally, shut the fuck up.  You have practically zero life experience so shut up.  Shut your stupid fucking mouth because you have no fucking idea what you’re talking about.  Shut the fuck up, you’re embarrassing me.  I know.  No you do not know everything.  You are not an expert on anything.  You are not especially bright, to be honest.  And quit hating on stuff, especially music.  Your taste in music is pretty dismal, and by the time you make it to the future you’ll be sorry you weren’t a bit more broad-minded.  Also, politics?!  You think you fucking know stuff about politics!?!?  You stupid dick.  Slap yourself.  Harder.  Again.  Does it hurt?  Good.  Repeat until you are crying.


With love,

Future You



About harrypeat

I'm a happy-go-lucky chap with a zest for life and the resting heart rate of a yellowfin tuna. I love long walks on the beach at dusk, paintings of elderly couples, and vegan dinners by candlelight. As well as being a talented rhythmic jazz guitarist, I am a part-time vblogger and all-round gymnast.
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