Now Playing: Never Grow Up by Taylor Swift (don't lose the way you dance around in your pjs getting ready for school)
Wow, I have not written one of these in a long long long long time.
You're on the home stretch, dearest Twelve. Don't give up just yet. You're going to high school next year and you just can't wait.
You become as rebellious as you dare, what with being a conservative Asian and all. You wear makeup to school, but that's less of a rebellion and more an act of desperate insecurity - acne happens this year, dearest Twelve, and four years later I can't really say it's fucked off just yet. You wear your hear down - shock horror! - and roll your eyes whenever you get told off. You wear black knee high socks with purple hearts and skull motif loafers. You know you don't look particularly avant garde, dearest Twelve, but you're desperate for a little individuality.
You're a bit of a douche, to be honest, dearest Twelve. I know you're small and hurt and vulnerable inside, but the shell you create for yourself is a bit...bitchy. You become very proud and arrogant this year and I don't know if I've entirely shaken that off. It's a good mask to hide your tears, dearest Twelve, but it's not exactly endearing. I wish I could have told you not to, but to be perfectly honest, I don't really have a better solution. Being nice just doesn't work for the moment. So keep wearing your armour, dearest Twelve. Do whatever it takes to stay strong.
But it's not all gloom and doom, dearest Twelve. You've got the Gang of Four and they love you for who you are. The proof? You met up with one of them four years later in the pouring rain, and you ate chocolate and burgers and chattered the whole night long, and it was like I was twelve years old again. Well, it was, until we started talking about some distinctly sixteen year old stuff.
BSC happens this year, dearest Twelve. You've never been so in love, and a thousand different emotions flood through you every heartbeat - love, jealousy, all of it. You've never wanted something so badly, and for the first time you've got something to lose. But don't worry, dearest Twelve. I know you hate hearing this, but you're only twelve. I promise you, you'll get over it. And there are slightly better losers to waste your time with.
Dearest Twelve, it's the start of something new next year. Don't worry about primary school. Don't worry about all the little things that are big things when you're twelve. What I love most about you, dearest Twelve, is that you're more in touch with reality than people give you credit for. Primary school isn't real, dearest Twelve. And it's a waste of energy trying to kiss it goodbye.