Back when I was angsting about turning forty, jrosehale suggested I follow the examples of Stephen Fry and his fellow royal subjects by writing a letter to myself as a 16 year old.  At first I was a bit afraid -- even petrified:  after all, Stephen Fry is a demigod of letters, theater, film, television, and the Internet while I'm just another Texas boy with a pot belly and a Chinese laptop. 

I'd hate to show the poor fellow up.

I wrote two paragraphs on my birthday but quickly realized that it wasn't working.  Besides, the hot new Star Trek and a cold beer were calling my name.

But now that I've had a bit of time to reflect, I'll try again.  So here I am, forty years and 11 days old, writing to my teenaged self.  Don't tell Stephen (he's so sensitive, you know).

( A civilized society would shoot me for this kind of self-indulgence... )