Do you remember the time I asked you to go to the store and buy a box of frosted, spoon-sized Shredded Wheat and you came back with the full-sized, unfrosted kind instead?
Yeah, let's talk about that.
How old do you think I am, anyway? Last I checked, I still wipe my own ass and I'm not offering gummy blowjobs when my dentures need a good soak because the half-melted, hair-covered butterscotch disc I picked up off the ground is now sugar-welded to the underside of my fake molar and the stench of Fiber One and denture paste just won't go away.
Speaking of which, how old DO you think I am? I know the whole "I'm only fourteen!" thing was funny in that "stranger danger," "you'll-become-a-registered-sex-offender" kind of way for about two weeks or so, but seriously? I'm only fourteen. You have a full-time job and are contemplating an early midlife crisis as an excuse to indulge and take out another loan you can't afford to fly to Amsterdam, trip balls on legal mushrooms (excuse me, TRUFFLES) and go try and scissor a wax version of Kathy Griffith in Madame Tussaud's -- and I'm still concerned about the preps calling me "used tampon" during gym class. Do you see some differences occurring here?
I guess what I'm really trying to say here is that it's not you, it's--
Okay, it's you.