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Dear Writer
A Letter to 100-Year-Old Me
Dear 100-Year-Old Me,
It’s September 2071. You made it to 100 in July. Can you believe that? It turns out the old saying is true, it IS better than the alternative. In fact, being 100 (at least so far,) has been quite a hoot.
I see you’ve put on a bit of weight over the past 50 years. You finally grew some boobs. Too bad it’s too late to show ’em off, eh? Haha, not for you, right? I know you were strutting around the pool in that hot-pink 2-piece bathing suit this summer. Prancing around the yard like it was a Paris runway, blasting WHAM. Extra points for not giving a shit, I guess!
The entire neighbourhood called you the cool old lady. Did you know that? Somewhere around your 85th birthday, you became popular. Funny for someone who was never anybody’s cup of tea. I think it’s because you always have beer and wine on hand, and one in your hand.
There’s one thing I have to ask you. You’re still so fit and healthy. You walk and swim every day, yet when you go into town to shop, you take your cane. Why is that? I know you don’t need it. Is it because you actually like shaking it at young people who are moving too slow for your taste? It is, isn’t it? Patience was never our strong point, especially…
