My friend Erin sent this to me today. I wrote this in fifth grade. 1992. Frankly, I would have expected something a little more impressive from a 10-year-old me. If I could go back in time, I’d tell her she disappoints me. I’d also tell her I’ve left $50,000 under the bed and she should invest it in a little tech company in the Pacific Northwest called Microsoft. Then I’d plan to go back to the current time and live in my giant mansion with my mini-ponies that I have decorated so that they look like unicorns, but my mansion and my mini-ponicorns probably won’t be there because that dumb 10-year-old can’t do shit. I mean, really, who can’t play a flute? Or was that your idea of a joke, Little Sasha? (You’ll get better at making jokes, dear, but most people won’t find them funny. That’s okay. You’ll know.)
It’s interesting, though, to read this rudimentary autobiography, penned fifteen years before I would build a company, a brand, and a primary source of income around a far more revealing and arguably over-stylized autobiography that I would write, in installments, over the course of four years using a medium that, for all intents and purposes, didn’t exist then.
She never would have guessed.
