If I could re-live a year of my life, it’d be 17. Not because it was perfect—it wasn’t—but because back then, everything still felt like it could be. My biggest problems were gas money, curfews, and figuring out why my computer made that awful dial-up noise. There was something pure about it, even when it sucked. Now every year feels like a reboot with worse graphics and more pop-up ads for back pain.

I miss when a Friday night meant driving around with no destination and pretending deep conversations about life over Taco Bell made me philosophical. These days, I’d give anything for that kind of pointless freedom again. Before every decision had “long-term consequences” and before I knew what an “IRA contribution” was. If you want to ruin your own good memories like I just did, here’s a decent article on how nostalgia messes with your brain. You’re welcome.

But honestly, I wouldn’t change anything. Even the cringe. Every bad haircut and dumb choice was fuel for whatever version of me is still standing. So no, I don’t want to re-do it. I just want to feel that spark again—the one before you start realizing you’re basically a collection of browser tabs and old receipts. Here’s another depressing gem on why memory lies to us. Go ahead, ruin your own illusions. Misery loves company.