i need to stop eating my fortune cookies, they’re all coming true: a cautionary letter to my younger self I. your parents are great indicators that nothing ever ends up perfect. they’ll read you countless stories of princesses and happily ever afters, but there’s always that bad taste in your mouth. we’re staying together for the kids but your dad is still sleeping on the couch outside your bedroom. his snores still crawl under your door like snails through thick moss. their second split will stick with you like syrup under your sleeve. you will have separation issues for the rest of your life. the only certainty is that nothing is certain. II. the old house is still there, empty and abandoned down over the railroad tracks. the memories melt out of the seams like the cheese in every sandwich you shared with your sister. you still sneak in, sit on the shelves, wonder how everything ended up falling in on itself. divorce brings destruction but this house is still here. these walls are still strong. even something empty can be full. you try to believe that this works for people too. things are never quite the way they seem. III. you have a crush on a cute boy in middle school and immediately start a list of possible baby names on your phone. there is already fear lighting sparklers in your heart. you can taste the butane of the lighter and feel the burn on your fingertips. this boy will never have any significance to you other than being the first time you realize it’s not going to be easy. you will never speak to him but have already played out the detachment in your head. you see him sleeping on the couch. you hear his snail snores. to be old and wise, you must first be young and stupid. IV. the first boy you fall in love with will not know how to love you. he will hold on to you too tight, make your fingertips turn blue. he will cut himself open when you try to leave, shove the razor blade into your hand. you will not be allowed to do anything without his anger creeping up the leg of your jeans like dirty rainwater; upsetting, but you get used to it. five years will feel like a lifetime. when you are finally strong enough to leave, he will threaten suicide for the umpteenth time. you knew this was coming. you are not surprised. you are already gone. the cure for grief is constant motion. V. you will meet a girl who is too far away, but you will love her anyways. she will move even farther away and plane tickets will turn into prayers. you will try as hard as you can to make things work. you will try so hard, too hard. you will spend your twenty-first birthday with her in paris, realizing she does not love you anymore. she says you love her too much. she says you’re too attached. you’ll tell yourself you knew it was coming. you’ll forget to eat because all you can remember is making your favorite food in her kitchen. you will always be the person that gives more. c’est la vie. love can last a lifetime, if you want it to. VI. you have saved all your fortunes from every cracked-open cookie since you were fourteen. this one reads: on attachment: the tighter you squeeze, the less you have. you will realize the best way for you to love, is to not. you have taught yourself that it is always you that messes things up. you try to protect everyone you care about, from yourself. you do not want to end up like your parents. you can already see yourself sleeping on the couch. you can already hear your own snail snores.
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