Please Deliver To:
455 Timberwolf Trail
Martinez, Georgia, 30907
June 1st, 2007
Hello. It’s me, Andrew. I’m now 17 years old and in the middle of 12th grade. Do you know what that means?
It’s time for me to write my letter back to you. I remembered! When I make a promise to you, I try to keep it. Although, out of all the questions to ask, why did you ask, “What is life like?” That’s like asking “What is life?”
First things first: I’m a big kid now. After all of this waiting, I get to do big kids things. One of the strangest things is that I can drive cars. You think you can drive a car? To be honest, you would probably be better than Bradley is right now. I also get the most esteemed honor of doing lots of homework. When you get older, homework becomes boring but required, which is the exact opposite of what it should be. I also get to slightly contradict adults without getting yelled at, and sometimes get treated almost equally. For example, I can lead other kids in classes. I get to be a fake teacher for a little bit. Adults still ignore you when you ask dumb questions. I remember when you were five, you asked where people came from, because that was a logical question, and the teachers brushed off the question.
Not too long ago, you were practicing addition in Ms. Reynold’s class, and you wondered if there was a such thing as four fives, or three sevens, and things like that. There is a thing for that. It’s called multiplication. Someone really should have told you.
Now, I ask why we have to have final exams all at the same time because that’s a dumb idea, and all the adults ignore me. Maybe I am still six years old, and wondering why old people are strange and doing things the wrong way.
Even though I have cosmetically changed into a different person, internally, I am still you. For example, I still have Scruffy, my stuffed dog. Somehow, his stitching hasn’t disintegrated into dust in 10 years. His fur is still blue, and his ribbon has not ripped off of his neck. Every time I walk into my room, among the cluttered junk and textbooks, Scruffy is there as a constant token of Georgia, Augusta Prep, and you.
I don’t even remember how you named Scruffy. All I remember is that one day, you decided he would be named Scruffy, and that was that. You need to write back to me and tell me what you based it off of.
Chances are, if you are reading this, then a lot of physics rules have been broken, and I might not exist. If we ignore the physics problems, you’re probably holding or in close proximity to a Transformer. Even now, I still get the temptation to endlessly transform them back and forth, and see the magic of turning vehicles into humanoids. Unfortunately, all of the other people in my grade will frown at me if I sit and just play with Transformers in the corner for fun. So will everyone else in the world. But did you know that you can get a job making Transformers? It’s vaguely what I plan to do. Because adults are dumb, they can’t call it anything cool like Professional Machination, so they call it Mechanical Engineering. I hope childhood will become my adulthood. Or maybe they are the one and same thing.
I know that this is your last day in Georgia before you leave behind Augusta Prep, the house, and everything familiar and comforting, so I’ll leave you to explore the house for the last time.
September 29th, 2017