It seems that the latest craze is writing letters to your 16-year-old self, full to the chunkies with insight, compassion, and the kind of sarcasm that’s ever-so-subtly poignant and has the ould tears globbing like a Celine Dion lyric in the ear canals of the indulgently suicidal.

And wouldn’t we all like to sashay back to our late teens? To be your very own space/time-continuum-fucking angel, smug as a hug up your snug, waffling through some sort of meaningful glurge while your teenage self alternates between weeping photogenically and nodding with pretty determination in front of a sweeping fucking sunset … I know I would. Why wouldn’t I? And it’s not because such dignitaries as Stephen Fry, Jonathan Ross, and Yoko Ono have joined in the heartwarming fun. I’ve always wanted to time-travel back to secondary school, to set a few things straight, to drag those hostages out of the closet before they starve and rot and shrivel to skeletons that could fall out at any inopportune moment, like at an important job interview where I suddenly remember how I never got my Now 1993 cassette back after Mary Martin’s slumber party, and scowl my way out of any possible full-time contract whilst snarling the melody of “Mr. Wendal” under my breath. Hmph. I should have beat the bitch senseless against the the sink in Home Ec room until she shat the entire playlist, fucking whoring thief.

Anyway, here’s my Dear Me. I’m making it short, snappy and to the point; two out of those three never applied to me at sixteen, and it’s time to make up for it.

Hey up Fucktardatron,

Fucktardatron might seem like something only a “spa” would call a “plike” right now, but trust me, when you join an internet forum (waaay better than chat rooms), the more ridiculous the insult you can pull out of your arse, the better. Also, people who read comedy blogs (waaay better than zines) will love it. Write it in your diary (which is lame, as are the lyrics of East 17 songs; Tony Mortimer is about as semantically talented as a blade of grass), alongside Count Knobula, Twat Machine, and Epic Mongoholic.

Here are some other pointers I think you should pay attention to. If my grasp on the laws of physics is anything like my grasp on this wax replica of Josh Homme’s arse (look him up, he’s in Kyuss), your following these guidelines will mean I’ll have some decent memories when I wake up in the morning, not just regrets about that Schnappes-chugging contest and that floppy-haired ogre at the UCC Traffic Lights disco. Did I say memories? I meant vague understandings of the narrative of fresh sheet-stains. Either or, it’s fucking unpleasant.

• That beautiful bully-queen in your class will end up with anorexia nervosa, with the emphasis on nervosa. With the inevitability of this in mind, it’s perfectly ethical to hurry her along.
• At some stage this year, one of your friends will break free of the studious gobshitery you lot are wedged into and sarcastically wail, “Oh yeah, you’re SO COOL” at one of the well-scrubbed, GAA-playing tools in your French class. It is the greatest thing you’ll ever see. Wipe her eye for her. Get there and startle him silent first.
• Seriously, don’t worry about offending the popular kids; they’re mostly retarded and let’s face it, you don’t fancy any of them.
  
• It’s Jarvis COCKer, not Jarvis CROCKer, stupid.
• You’ll meet your husband at nineteen. That’s only three years to be a light-hearted slut, so get a move on.
  
• Shrooms won’t stay legal forever. Get the drying pan on.
• Save up for a GHD. You’ll know when the time comes.
• There’s no ten-foot ghost that hangs out on the dark corner on your way home. Your da is a sniggering liar, you muppet.
• Never trust anyone from Bandon.
• Those baggy grey slacks make your arse look huge.
• Never make a monetary bet with Nearest Brother. He’s a scabby fucker and his word means about as much as Scatman’s World.
• It’s not cute that you love Star Wars.
• Stop thinking you might be pregnant. You’re couldn’t be less pregnant if you were a concrete block.
  
• Your pixie crop doesn’t make you look like Winona Ryder. It makes you look like Curly Watts.

I’d be mightily disappointed if my sixteen-year-old self actually paid any attention to this shit; there’s no mantra like Don’t Trust The Elderly. I wonder what my fifty-year-old self would tell my twenty-eight-year-old self? Possibly to stop dissing Salman Rushdie and spending my money on shit wine.

I look forward to finding out.

I don’t really. I know being old will be well lame.