Dear Tiny, Ineffectual Self,
Put down that tamagotchi and gather round. I know this is hard to understand, but I'm the bigger, older, more powerful version of you. You're in the third grade, which is stupid and useless; I'm in college. That word probably means nothing to you, wee one. All you need to know is that I am in a far more awesome place than you can dream of. Think: Pokemon in Candyland. With snap bracelet trees, and hunky jungle gyms. Although I do live in a place called the Butts. Even you probably think that's lame.
Because you are the younger version of myself, I have seniority, you are my property, and you have to do what I say. Not fair? Shut up. You are four feet tall, so I could easily hold you upside down for several minutes which, scientifically speaking, would make your head explode. Also, you are learning cursive and times tables. Big effing deal. I know how to take integrals and what the literary implications of the Elizabethan Chain of Being are. So I am pretty much a genius compared to you.
You are living in 1999. Nothing remotely important is going on. Soon a guy called Dubya will be running the country, which is really really fantastic and turns out great, because: Obama. State Senator from Illinois. Write to him, act adorable, tell him you believe in him because he has the Audacity to Hope. Suggest that he run for higher office. It is very important that you jump on that bandwagon now. Trust me you little shit.
Also, spend more time on the Internet. Playing outside? Worthless. You are no athlete. This will never change. So get ready for RSS feeds, blogs, and the memorization of key phrases from film and music reviews as well as their corresponding scores. If you want to get along with boys, who are drool buckets but at least predictable, start watching HomestarRunner.com, Chapelle’s Show, and South Park.
You’re getting braces this year. That is going to suck some ass. But your teeth are fugly. Super crooked and big. They look like you chugged a glass of Skele-Gro. (That's from Harry Potter. When the first book gets big, bet Katie $200 that Snape kills Dumbledore. Say you just have a feeling.) Listen, dirtbag: these are the last years of being cute. Middle school and most of high school are irredeemably unattractive. So I say, Run with it. I want to see headgear, glasses you don’t even need, long skirts, shirts with sassy/glittery phrases, polyester knits with cutout shapes. This will allow you to become dramatically more hot with almost zero effort. Relativity is the only thing that matters to adolescent personal growth, so have extremely low expectations.
In summation: you have little to look forward to for a long time. Your mission is to secretly and ruthlessly take over the world. Start studying for the SATs tonight. The plural of index is indices.