The crusty letter below reeks of vodka and despair. It was likely written in a wheelchair by some forgotten, senile old man in a dark corner of the world.

Dear Past Self,

You're arrogant. Selfish. Just plain MEAN! It's not going to get you anywhere. You'll lose all your friends. Your family will get tired of you and stop coming around. No one will like you anymore. Do yourself a favor and let the people in your life know you're sorry while there's still time!

With lots of love,
O.G. Clarence

P.S. - Stop reading by yourself, stop playing games by yourself, and for God's sake, get off the computer and find a job. It's embarrassing.

P.P.S. - 2020. Donald Trump will win again. Prepare yourself, young man. It gets ugly.

The letter below is stained with grease and the tiny bits of a cheeseburger Hot Pocket. It was likely put together very quickly so that the author could get back to playing Xbox.

Dear Future Self,

I hope you didn't write this down you fat idiot. I know you're fat because I'm fat. I imagine with enough time and my current diet of everything I can shove down my fucking gullet I'll end up gaining even more weight. In fact, I'm going to get some Oreos and a big cup of Coke right now. Enjoy your diabetes. LOSER!

With no fucks given,
The Real Clarence

P.S. - We'll never be rich. Not now, not ever. Because I just dropped out of high school yesterday. Tell Momma I said hi when you get back from buying your scratch-offs!

P.P.S. - When I see you I'm going to kill you.

The letter below would likely cure chlamydia were it read to the infected person's privates. It glows as though as it were forged in the heart of the sun.

Dear Past and Future Selves,

Present Self here! I just thought I'd add that Past Self was an evil, emo little bastard who I'd happily hop in a time-traveling DeLorean going 88 mph to beat the fuck out of, while Future Self is likely a very sick, homeless, impotent old man who still hasn't grown a proper beard yet. You're both worthless! Go kill yourselves.

With no love OR fucks given,

P.S. - I'm praying for you losers.

P.P.S. - Technically you two are writing to yourselves. Who does that? Got a couple of dumbasses on my hands...