God, mother. Her eyes are rolling behind the tint of sunglasses.
So perfectly 16.
iPhone as appendage.
Black nail polish.
Embellished vest.
Toothpick figure.
Laptop.
Purse at crook of arm.
Illustrated shirt.
I hope you're reading The Great Gatsby in English class. That's such a good one.
I hope learning about photosynthesis doesn't bore you too much. Because there will be a day when you actively seek out information on how the world works: "It's Science Friday on NPR, yesssss!"
I hope you have best friends named something like Jessica or Zoe or Becca or Amber.
I hope driving around in your hand-me-down Honda listening to a painstakingly compiled mix-CD is literally everything and a bag of chips.
As much as you use it, I hope you're keeping perspective on how very little social media contributes to or reflects upon a well-lived life. How sometimes it even makes you unhappy. Sometimes I forget that too.
And when you take thousands and thousands of pictures at concerts or basketball games with your phone, it makes me old man depressed: at some point in your life I hope you had a bicycle, and a neighborhood gang, and a backyard, and a baseball mitt, and a coin or stamp collection, with summer nights spent catching fireflies in mason jars in your swimsuit without ever once thinking of Instagram-ing it.
For more unwelcome advice, see: Jon Hamm.
Photo from: The Sartorialist.
