Girls Don’t Get Nicer and Math Doesn’t Get Easier

Dear 9-year-old me — one day being different will be “in”

Dear 10-year-old me — you don’t have to be good at something to like it

Dear 11-year-old — it’s not the end of the world

Dear 12-year-old me — your mother was right

Dear 13-year-old me — don’t worry! They’ll grow, and then you’ll hate them.

Dear 14-year-old me — girls don’t get nicer, and math doesn’t get easier.

Dear 15-year-old me — don’t leave the house dressed like that, you’ll be cold.

Dear 16-year-old me — they’ll talk about you whether you take a puff or you don’t, so have F-U-N.

Dear 17-year-old me — it’s true, writers don’t make money. Keep writing.

Dear 18-year-old me — treasure this moment, this age, this youth. You’ll miss this age!

Dear 19-year-old me — it’s not the end of the world

Dear 20-year-old me — you’re allowed to cry

Dear 21-year-old me — love yourself

Dear 22-year-old me — you can’t please everyone. So start with yourself.

Dear 23-year-old me — you’re prettier with a few extra pounds.

Dear 24-year-old me — when you know, you know.

Dear 24-and-a-half-year-old me — if you’re writing this instead of studying for a test on Information Systems tomorrow, you’re:

• Not built for the academy
• Doing something right.