Dear Tweenage Me,
This Time Tomorrow, if pressure builds, please: Sing Child! an eruption uncanny and everlasting.
You’re still just an Excitable Boy, a Young American, but don’t forget: Time Is Movin’ toward Childhood’s End, so store your Salad Days — the French Kissing, the Summertime Blues, the Disney Girls, the Rock & Roll. One day, you’ll sit with your Fluorescent Adolescence, way up on Sugar Mountain.
Step into those Houses of the Holy and repeat a universal mantra: “Sometimes I Don’t Know What To Feel.”
When it hits you, that Those Years Are Over, return to the teenage wasteland inside you, still churning like a surprise Sex Dream, a late night Beach Comber roving the coasts of your mind.
Face It Boy — you’re Almost Grown. Sooner or later, you’ll see that only Change is here to stay.
Love,
You
P.S.
This mix emerged from every whitehead I ever popped in My Little Town’s middle school bathroom.
