Dear Me,

I’m going to answer this rationally and logically. I’m not your friend. Or I am, just not in the conventional way. I’m not going to help you bury a body, make pinky promises or cheer you on when you chug another flaming Lamborghini shot. I’m going to watch your back, encourage you to always tell the truth and believe in Santa Claus.

You’re all “live in the moment”, thinking you’re a reincarnated John Lennon with your “let it be” mantra. You are not John Lennon. Last time I checked, we were not born in the 40s, we are not the most famous member of the most famous band in music history and we do not take nude photos with Yoko Ono. I’m sorry for the imagery. 

Me, you are ungrateful. You seem to have forgotten the things that I have done for you. Remember when you wore whistle earrings and your colleague was all I-am-Flo-Rida and asked “Can I blow your whistle?” ? Remember how I stopped you from replying “No, it doesn’t work without balls.” ? Good choice in retrospect, if you ask me. Which you did. Or how about that time the McDonald’s delivery bag was left outside your building’s elevator because McDeliveryman didn’t want to carry the load up the stairs when the electricity cut. The smell of those fries enticed you and you thought “he’d never notice a missing happy meal.” He wouldn’t – but little Hassouna would and McDeliveryman would be out of a McJob because you couldn’t control your gastrointestinal urges. And your pepper spray will not save you if you decide to verbally destroy the Ed Hardy-clad inverted-collared casanova at the bar by telling him that he’s not Pinocchio: the wood isn’t going to grow, no matter how much he lies about the length. And let’s not forget the countless times I have to keep you from breaking out into a southern dabkeh whenever Chris Brown’s I Can Transform Ya comes on. Even you know that ain’t right.

I’m the one that needs to function the day after you make mistakes. While others are putting their life together, you’re still trying to find your matching yellow sock that goes with your banana T-shirt. I may have a lack of consistency but you have a lack of discipline. You can’t drink 4 Bonjus pineapple triangle juiceboxes and think you won’t need a bathroom in 20 minutes. You were spot-on when you said you are a child and I feel that JD’s theory about his relationship with Turk can be applied to ours if it were to go the way you wished: like a blooming onion, delicious but unhealthy. 

With all that said, it pains me to admit something: you are right. Perhaps I think too much. Maybe I need to loosen the reigns and just be your cheerleader. (Focus. If you start imagining kinky costumes, we are going to need so much therapy that even foster dad/husband Woody Allen would be telling you “that shit cray.”) I do want happiness. I want you to be thrilled with the life that you lead and, sometimes, I want you to take risks because playing it safe doesn’t always balance out. Sure, in the long run, it may be the more reasonable decision but reasonable security never outweighs unreasonable security. Some of the most beautiful things in life don’t make any sense: Salvador Dali paintings, love, and Matt Bomer’s sexual orientation. What a loss. 

It seems in some cases, sense is overrated and you just have to go with your gut. But please stay away from the chicken nuggets. 

Always here for you,
Conscience