Age is such a drag; I mean why can we not just get over the whole inexperience comes with youthfulness crap? I mean, seriously! The world is at our fingertips as much as it was yours when you were sixteen something–God, what an image that is…I feel sickened to my tummy.
They call us losers, and I am sitting here telling them they need to fly straight, wingman; but do they listen? Nuh-uh. They walk around with those irritating grins and stuff their hands in their pockets like they got some kinda cash machine in them silken vaults. For them the sun has not stopped shining since they opened their first window.
Let me tell you, misters and missuses, you got some powerful confidence walking up to us lazing folk; and if I were you I would watch where you set them hands–do not grab my shoulders and tell me about the happiness of aging. I live to be young; I will be young, no matter what secrets you want to keep from me.
Betchoo barely remember what it was like to have youth: it is not some green scrap you hold in your soft hand, nor is it a ring o’ keys to that shiny new convertible; youth is immaterial, my dear old hat; it is completely immaterial.
As a matter of fact the complications involving youth are not as taught in Business-Logistic Academy; they are indisputably our own and we wish to maintain their sanctity through a little devilry we call fun. Would you be so kind as to accept this deal and let us frolic as it pleases us?
I have signed here on the dotted line–this is unquestionably a legitimate document telling all naysayers to stop in their tracks and return homewards with their tails between their legs.
You get what I’m saying, dog?
I will slice you up with the pen if you do not sign this sheet. You are gonna be cottage cheese, ya hear me? You gonna be food for the rat-a-rats. And don’t think this pen is weak either, because it can hold up to the weight of your oppressive arm all fine and dandy.
Please and thank you.
Quit telling us we need to grow up!