Yeah, I'm talkig to you Mr. 5th avenue armani, with your wool sweaters and your itallian leather trench coats, and your black slacks, and your shiny shiny shoes, and your toni&guy hair, and your health spa weight room body, and your fancy pants cigarettes.

FUCK YOU!

You'll see, one day I'll get my brand new wiffle ball bat, the one thats sleek and shiny, and then you'll all want to come play at MY house. And I'll say "wellllll I don't know.. I've got a lot of OTHER friends too, y'know" and then you'll beg to hang out with me, and it will be great. I will be 5 years old again.

I'll bet you wish you could be me, the same way that I wish I could be you. But you can't. FUCK YOU! I'm me, and you're you. And it all sucks. And my goldfish is dying because some asshole put Lucas salt in his water. Oh well, he was only there to build bacteria for the Pirahna anyway.

Do I have a point? No, not even a little bit.