Send To Self: September 4th, 2003

Dear Aaron,


How are you fairing? Tentatively glaring?
Grade nine... will be fine.
Do you recognize this sloppy printing?
Not much different six years later, is it?
At least it sure won't be sloppy thinking.
This message is key, from a future that will no longer be.

To ward off sadness, make an effort to stay fit.
This I write with tears in my eyes.
Depression will strike, I tell you no lies.

But don't get me wrong,
Our escape plan worked.
There's no more cruel throng.
No bullies, no scapegoat.
No threats of kick ass.
No urge to slit throat.
All to suffer now is Gym class.

They don't matter.
They don't matter.
They don't matter.
Got that?
Those social asses,
Will soon be in separate classes.
When they get in your way, do not swerve.
Show 'em the kindness they don't deserve.
And if they do not take leave,
Wear apathy upon each sleeve.

You're in a school of the arts,
Not a school of music.
And though it is your forté,
It socially won't stick.

Forsake not the other arts.
When semester two starts,
You'll see y'got more in common,
With those that take to drawin'.
Gaming, writing, roleplaying...

You'll find good friends sooner at the Animé Club.
Take Lance with you, because Adam is crazy.

Otherwise, you'll find yourself among odd company.
Perverts, stoners, high-maintenance girls,
And you... all chattering like squirrels.

P. S.
Avoid a mess,
Beware of the Russian fist.
I really wish he had missed.
Such a shame,
As your jawline will never be the same.

The End

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