You're 18. It's somewhere in the early 2000s and you've just graduated. You're soaking in the warm summer night air in your bed watching The Office. The world is so far away and simultaneously rushing at you at the speed of fuck. Your Blink-182 CD loops back again.

Suddenly, a bright pinprick of light bathes your dim room in an eerie blue-white glow. The light begins to grow and you realize it's undulating, like a fluid unbound by gravity as it roils in the air. You're too stunned to speak and cover your eyes at the harsh light. Your hairs stand on end and chills run along your skin. Somewhere inside, you associated such luminosity with heat, but the sphere—no, the disc, seems to be consuming the energy in the room, like some kind of ethereal whirlpool.

You gasp as a shadow moves through the shimmer. First a hand, then the upper half of what looks like a torso. The figure cocks their head as they look around the room. You can only make out their silhouette, but... they're vaguely familiar.

It's... you! They're different, a bit more worn down, perhaps, but they're unmistakably you. After a moment, your breath catches in your throat. They're older. Your mind, stunned by the absurdity of what has just occurred, finally catches up.

"You're me... from the future," you say. The statement immediately sounds stupid. Of course they are. The portal, the older you, what else could be happening. You scramble for a pen and an old school journal at your nightstand. You've fantasized about this before. You know what to do. Write down what they say and you'll be rich. No, you'll stop some horrible cataclysm. Maybe you'll keep your true love from leaving!

You turn back to yourself expectantly, anxiety causing your hand to shake on the page. You're holding your breath. Your lungs burn but you hardly can bring yourself to care.

The older you looks down at you from the swirling light.

"You are eighteen," they say with a shit-eating grin. In an instant, the light is gone. Darkness floods your room again as if nothing at all had happened. Outside your window, crickets continue to chirp. Your mind races, generations of genetically perfected pattern recognition searching for meaning in the words until you remember shitpostd about this exact scenario on 4chan.

"Oh go fuck yourself," you say, tossing aside the journal.