Dear Imaginary Daughter,
You will be a horrible mother. I will inform you when you’re thirteen, the ripe age for making babies, because you’re an impatient, impulsive, ego-centric drama queen that has yet to learn to hold your tongue like me. Have you not been paying attention?
You will try to bite off your tongue, but you’re too sensitive to endure that sort of pain. Only men are strong enough to hack off parts of their bodies to survive. Dummy (because you’re weak, and you don’t really think you need to be silenced, you’ve just given into your survival instincts.)
Dum-dum, you could have another sucker from Grandpa if you’d stop biting them and just suck. You suck. He likes to watch. Don’t tell anyone; I know it’s hard not to because you still have your tongue. Your stepmother will make you regret it because you will have way too much to say.
Say, yes, ma’am. Your new mother will yell almost as loud as your father until she can’t, then she will yell at you because she wants to be just like your father, so she practices on you—you, who didn’t clean her mess in the kitchen, you, who loves me more, you, with the mother who couldn’t keep her legs closed, you, with the mother who is skinnier, prettier, you, who looks just like me, you, who wasn’t aborted. It’s all your fault for the same reason you can’t remove your own tongue.
You will start removing your baby dolls’ heads instead, throwing them into patches of cacti, bending your Barbies’ legs until they break free, feeding them to the dog, cutting off your hated Troll doll’s hair. You will be a horrible mother.
You will never get it right, but you can start pretending you have Tourette’s and funnel some rage, then say, Oops! You can read about a boy who got sent away to some place in the mountains who had Tourette’s for real and made a full recovery. You will know he had it pretty bad because women are the only ones good at faking everything. You will not recover from this.
All the women in our family will teach you how to contour your face, rip off your eyebrows, wear acrylic nails that break off if you sneeze, bleach, rinse, repeat, stop eating. You should really consider yourself lucky. Pain is beauty. Some girls lose more than just eyebrows.
Your first boyfriend will persuade you to stay a virgin. Consider him a gem. Consider that anal doesn’t count. You will count the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling in the far corner of the room until the dry jabbing stops. You will only get to five, and you count fast. Your participation prize will be a hemorrhoid. You can get it surgically removed. It’s an outpatient procedure done by a male. Don’t expect any pain meds stronger than Tylenol unless you know a guy who knows a guy. Aren’t you aware of the opioid crisis? You could be an addict or worse—ungrateful. Just be happy you’re not pregnant (because you live in Texas where abortion is illegal.)
Remember: it’s not rape if you don’t say so. You are not above rape culture. Take responsibility (like a man) for your too tight shirt and whispering tits. Everyone will see your labia sneaking peeks from your Daisy Dukes, and ask themselves, is she even wearing underwear? Don’t expect anyone to sympathize with your bad choices.
What more do you want? You get to be a mother after you marry. Unless you are cursed with infertility, probably from all the sex you will have out of wedlock. Your body will get confused. Girls must be monogamous, virginal, not vaginally educated. Orgasms aren’t necessary for reproduction. Go ahead and siphon your happiness from your husband’s dick. You suck. You should be happy if your husband is happy. Duhhh-mmy.
Very Best,
Mother
P.S. Breast cancer runs in the family, so go ahead and get a double mastectomy when you’re 35. If you haven’t produced children by then, render yourself useless. You’ll be lucky to keep your man. At least your children won’t have to endure your inevitable divorce. You will be truly blessed, boobless, yes, but blessed.
