Dear Future Son,

Hey there, it’s Dad. 

Blech blech blech pthlecccch.

Okay, sorry, just not used to referring to myself as that.  Kinda weird and disturbing.  Like, paper cuts in between your toes disturbing after seeing your parents do it scary.  See, it’s just that this is Da—err, me, back in 2008.  I’m the bachelor version of the Mike Budney you know and love.  Subtract the gray hair and gelatinous inner tube around Future Mike’s waist and it should give you a good idea of what I look like.   
Now, unless something went terribly wrong, err, unplanned, it should be around 2030 and you should be getting ready to head to middle school or whatever they’re calling it these days.  I’m also pretty sure that you are, in fact, a dude because, well, that’s just the way it has to be. (Fate, do not be tempted)  I decided recently that I needed to send you a message from the past and let you in on something important, just in case the nuclear fall out or robots or a combination of both got to me, rendering my brain unpreservable.  Fortunately, you have this website—and whatever crazy mamby-pamby future memory-enhancement doohickeys you have over there in the future—to remember me by.

But, I digress…

Like I said, I’m assuming you’re nearing that special age when new hormones are a-flowin’ and hair is a-sproutin’ 24-7.  Unless, of course, Earth is now on Centribilian time.  Then that stuff would be happening 37-12.  In any case, the middle years of your education are just around the corner and I have a little knowledge to drop on you—it’s absolutely okay to be a complete nerd for the next 3-4 years of your life.

Now, before you go calling me crazy (if you do, you’re grounded), just know that I’ve done years of research on this and it’s pretty clear that most of the “cool” kids in middle school either end up failing a good number of classes, addicted to some sort of barbiturate, pregnant by the end of high school, or really into Dane Cook.  (I apologize if it’s illegal to actually mention that name in your world, as it would not surprise me.  Allow me to apologize for any legal proceedings that this might lead to (I’m sure I can afford bail, anyway—no doubt all of that cold hard cash I’ve been stuffing into my mattress since I was 14 is finally paying off.  No pun intended.))  You don’t want any of that, especially the latter, believe you me.  The uncooler you are, the better off you will be in the end.  You’ll have more time to focus on your studies, you’ll gain a sense of humility, and, eventually, you’ll be very thankful for the instance you finally lose your virginity.  Here are a few tips to make sure you geek your life out as fully as possible:

1. Tuck in your shirts, always.  Especially when you’re wearing a T-shirt with jeans.
2. Gain a little weight.  Not a grossly obese amount, but just enough so you’re not cute, yet not completely repugnant.
3. Don’t be afraid to answer questions in class, even if this means an ass-kicking under the bridge after school.  Showing off your smarts is a good thing, plus black eyes are badass. (At the time I’m writing this, I still haven’t had one, but would love a shiner to grace this face.)
4. If possible, try to consciously sweat profusely when girls are around.
5. Get a bad haircut.  This is tricky because, chances are, whatever hairdo you think is “cool” probably isn’t, so I’d just go with what you want here.
6. Wear loafers with most outfits.
7. Ask a girl completely out of your league to be your girlfriend and cry in front of her when she says no.
8. Turn red and look at the ground whenever someone actually publicly recognizes one of your accomplishments.
9. Forget your lunch and have you mom bring it into the cafeteria while everybody is sitting there.
10. Audibly fart on accident when you’re paired up with a cute girl in science class.

I hope this helps.  Please feel free to ask Future Me for any other tips—God knows I have more.

Sincerely,
Bachelor Mike

PS: I hope it hasn’t been psychologically damaging to hear all of your friends refer to your mother as a “MILF.”  I take complete blame for this, although I’m not sorry in the least.