I don’t have many regrets. Even my mistakes have shaped me into the person I am. You could tell your grandmother about the few skeletons in my closet and she’d probably laugh and tell you a few saucy stories about your grandfather.
However, if you offered to lend me your time machine for a few hours, I’d go back to 7th grade at David Lipscomb Middle School. I’d page myself over the intercom. I catch myself leaving Mrs. Yates’s study hall during 7th period, and I’d put a hand on my shoulder and say, “The bell will ring at 3pm. School will be out. You will wait until the rest of your classmates leave the room then you will walk over to your girlfriend. You will break up with her….”
At this point I’d slap myself across the face just to make sure myself was listening.
Now that I had my attention, I’d continue giving myself advice: “You will be tempted to say to your girlfriend, ‘You’re dumped,’ then walk away, simple as that, no formalities, no apologies, and no decency. At least be kind and find a way to be honest without causing her unnecessary pain. You owe her more than that.”
The problem is, you have never offered to loan me your time machine. You own no time machine. That one stays on my record. Thanks for nothing.