Dear younger me,

Dear younger me who loves glitter and the colour pink, you still love glitter and the colour pink. I hope you won't be too heartbroken to learn that I've given away most of your stuffed animal collection. I confess I've long been haunted by a cacophony of furry heartbeats and for a serene mind, I beg your pardon. Mamá and Papá still tell the story of our first Christmas Eve in Canada. With the faith they'd have in a Bible verse, they recount how, upon seeing an empty table, you ran to put all your stuffed animals on chairs around the holiday feast. We're not alone anymore, you said. It’s curious how you identified more with your stuffed animals than your dolls. You never liked dolls. No doll I know has body hair, whereas you've always had plenty. Mi peludita, you'll attend several funerals of untruths. Growing up means seeing the hidden side of the Moon, which alas isn't a huge Babybel cheese. Dear little me who wrote a story with a prince as her saviour, you shall be blessed with the psyche of Artemis and passion of Sappho. Dear little me, let your tears fill the Holy Grail if you're sorrowful, for one day you'll sit proudly on your throne as Drama Queen. Dear younger me, you're hoping to study a joint major in psychology and gender and sexuality studies—it's okay if you don't understand what I'm referring to yet. Dear younger me, I hope if you saw me your eyes would gleam like Champagne. For I long like Dom Pérignon to shout, “Come quickly, I am tasting the stars!”