Experience is a Bitch.

Dear 2006 Ashton: This is 2005 Ashton. This, perhaps, shall be our fine holiday tradition: I, writing to you; an ephemeral avatar, airbending the messages of the past to the reality of your present. Ach! However eloquently I put it, it's still a damned simple time capsule. No need for fanfare, ehm? I've just received a message that I'd completely forgotten about from my 2003 self. He seems to be love-stricken with a lewd minx by the name of Talbot. Ah, yes. What was the word he used? "You better have married her by now, or at least engaged..." oh, you damnable, damnable fool. But you know this already. You're me, and with even more knowledge and experience. We, or at least I, are loath to waste precious breath on such piffle-paffle. Oh, look at me... MY SOUL IS SUFFUSED BY THE ICY TENDRILS OF LOVE LOST, AND THE CLOCKWORK MIASMA TICKS ITS DESTRUCTION-MINUTES BY. No, no, no. We know better. We know true expression takes place when the words used are the best words possible that best convey the utter crux of the message, the seminal SEMBLANCE, as it were. I'm past Chapter II: Youth, Section IV: Pretense. And now I shiver slightly as I realize that, perhaps, my future self, you, will scorn the follies of 2005 and 2006 much as I had scorned the follies of 2003 and 2004? I already have an inkling of the wasted potential and fragmented impetus that I have allowed to bestrew my path. But I truly hope that tomorrow will shine so brightly that your yesterdays will be a crackling hearth-fire by your side; an object of comfort, not pain. Chapter III, Adulthood. Section II: Growing the Fuck Up.