Another note...

Dear FutureMe, You'll probably have forgotten writing this by the time you receive it; you usually forget doing stupid things like this. Where are you living now? It better not be at home. Maybe with a boyfriend? Ha. You're probably still terrible at keeping relationships alive. If you're better at it by the time you read this, feel free to build a time machine so you can travel back and bitch-slap me. It's probably time for the Faire by now. Are you working this year like you said you would? I doubt it. You have this funny trouble with never finishing anything you set your mind to. On that note, have you written anything? Have you SOLD anything? I hope so. Perhaps you got that Lear script off your hands. It would be pretty darn amusing if one of the shows performed at the Faire this year was yours to begin with. We must really have a screwed-up psyche for writing this. Especially because all I'm doing is berating you. Or myself, technically. I'm sorry for that. Maybe you'll have gotten your shite together by now. Maybe you're married. Wouldn't that be lovely? Twenty and married to a lovely actor with sandy blonde hair and freckles on his chest. I hope you're still in contact with Shelby. He is one of the kindest, most genuine people I've ever met... unless he's since done something terrible, in which case screw 'im and I wish I'd never set eyes upon him. Nah. That won't happen. You two are probably planning the wedding as you read this. Don't let him look over your shoulder. Wow. This is long. I think I'm finished now. GOOD LUCK.