In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “From You to You.”
Fifty-One Year Old Vicki…or did you decide to go by Victoria? Are you still alive? Of course you are! The fortune teller from Long Beach told you that you’d live until you were 84. I totally hope that you still look bangin’ and that your tattoos still look fresh.
I wonder if you got any more ink, because at 31 (as you are today, in 2015) you have zero plans for new tattoos. Did you end up getting married? Are you still married as you hoped with kids living on a lovely ranch saving homeless animals?
I really hope you figured out what you wanted to do career-wise, something that you absolutely love and could monetize.
I wonder if you adopted your mom’s style when she was in her 50s. Short hair, grayed, reading glasses that tinted from sun exposure, walking with a cane because you have bad knees and gave no fucks about anyone’s poor opinion regarding your choice to wear a light blue jean vest with dark blue jean pants.
Or maybe you adopted your step-mom’s look while she was in her 50s, dying her hair jet black and wearing a dark pink lipstick fooling everyone into thinking that you are still 31 years old….hahaha
Enough being shallow.
I hope you’re still happy with yourself and I hope that you were able to make others happy. I hope that your mom and siblings are doing well and that you finally learned how to fight in preparation of the zombie apocalypse.
I hope that you found your romantic match who truly gets you and is not unrequited. I hope they look at you for all of your worth and appreciate you.
I really hope you finally got your shit together and moved into your own place, your own home; with a garden and a gnome.
I hope you’re safe, I hope you’re healthy, I hope you found peace.