Hey 2025 Sarah,
Congrats on surviving another year! If you’re reading this, I assume:
a) The robot uprising hasn’t happened (yet),
b) You finally bought real pants (not just sweatpants with holes), and
c) You’ve stopped naming houseplants just to watch them die (RIP Chad the Cactus).
2024 Me Here - Reporting Live From Chaos Central:
Career Status: Still calling myself a "freelance creative genius" while frantically Googling "how to do taxes."
Love Life: Dating apps = horror show. Last date asked if my dog’s zodiac sign was "compatible" with his. I swiped left into the void.
Adulting Wins This Week:
✅ Remembered to water Chad (he died anyway)
✅ Only cried once in a Target parking lot (new record!)
✅ Didn’t microwave my phone (yet)
2025 You BETTER Tell Me:
Did you finally block your ex? Or are you still stalking his cousin’s dog’s Instagram? (We both know the answer.)
Is Stanley Cup culture dead? Or do you now own a $200 "emotional support thermos"?
Did AI boyfriends become real? Asking for a… uh, friend. 👀
A Gentle Reminder From Your Past Disaster:
That "I’ll start yoga!" phase? It’s okay if the mat’s still in its wrapper.
That "invest in Bitcoin" joke? If it actually mooned, I’ll haunt you.
That tattoo of a taco? Iconic. Zero regrets.
PROUDEST 2024 MOMENT:
When the barista spelled my name "Sarah" not "Sara" or "Serah." We take Ws where we can.
Final Request:
If you’re still single eating Taco Bell in your car… OWN IT. Text me (wait, us?) a pic with the caption: "Living the damn dream."
You’re doing great, sweetie ✨
— 2024 You
(who absolutely still uses "anxiety" as a personality trait)