Every era of your life is partially molded by people.
Your happy era. Your sad era. Your fat era.
And then there are subdivisions. The years in your eras. Your ballerina year. Your telivision year. Your romantic year.
Some have very concrete eras they store in their memories. I don't. Mine are just sensations. Smells.
There's this feeling you get in your eyelids when you come across someone from your previous eras, your previous years.
That old man has gotten older. The little girl you used to babysit is in seventh grade now. You were in seventh grade a few years ago. Those two are dating now.
You have to look at everything, everyone, and try to telepathically communicate to them the things you'd have done differently.
To the old man; your kids are fine. They're fine.
To the little girl you used to babysit; don't shop at American Eagle, and don't look at the Victoria's Secret models.
To the couple; don't do this to yourself. You have years to go. Everyone says that, IknowIknowIknow. But once you realize you don't want this, you'll have ridden that roller coaster for too long, and the operator won't stop because he's a mean carnie.
To the pair of sisters you went to church with; you are so. beautiful.
To your old doctor; I hate you.
To your second grade teachers; second grade. Second grade. Second grade. Oh, second grade.
To your old psychiatrist; thanks, but what the hell were you trying to do?
To your ex-romance; I'm so sorry. But please. Get straightened out.
And then there's you. Those people look at you, and some of them don't remember who you are, some of them don't recognize you. But the people who recognize you are terrified of you.
What happened to you? What. the. hell. happened to you? Who are you? I thought you were dead. I thought you killed yourself. Aren't you supposed to be in your room crying? I heard about you. My mom said you were ill. My friend said you went crazy.
You're like a legend. Neither good nor bad. Like the white haired lady who sits on her porch and eats canned peaches straight out of the jar all day. Legendary.
I dare you to bring her a can of maraschinos.