Giving me advice was dangerous when I was young. Unless I asked for it, the response might be “Hmmmm.” And if I didn’t like you, it could be an invitation to go to hell. Armed with this self-knowledge, I would be reluctant to run up to my 19-year-old self and offer advice. I prefer to eat a fresh raw onion with hot sauce and a side of four-alarm chili.
Besides, there is the risk of contaminating the temporal continuum, perhaps setting up a causal loop or a fractious-causal slump in the material fabric of the quasi-temporal fascia. Yes, I do read a lot of science fiction!
What if my younger self did take my advice to befriend the young Steve Jobs, buy Apple stock, and become a multi-millionaire? Instead of carving portraits of other people’s boats, I might live aboard my 240-foot yacht. I can see it now, glitzy enough to light fires of envy in the eyes of celebrities, Russian oligarchs and make Jeff Bezos envious.
Now, I’ll be all set if I can only find that ad for a flux capacitor. But wait…I don’t have Mr.Fusion installed on the car!
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This is a good prompt — it made me think of what advice I’d give my teenage self, more 15 than 19. I realized my dad was giving it to me. At 19 the shit had hit the fan and advice was irrelevant. I didn’t take advice easily back then, either, though. I think I (maybe we?) wanted to get into the labyrinth and see what was there. I dunno. But if you’ve had fun carving boats like I had fun doing XYZ? That’s worth a LOT.
True