If you had told me when I was twelve that I would grow up to be a sluggish overweight man, you know what I would have said? I would have said "Hey! Who are you? How did you get in my house? My Mom and Dad are going to be home any minute, they just went to the IGA for cigarettes, honest! They're going to walk in the door any minute. And boy are they going to be mad at you! You with your strange hairstyle and too informal clothes and giant complicated Keds on your feet! Are you from a faraway planet? Come all this way to bring me a message of import to the entire human race? And that message is I'm going to be fat when I grow up? Well, go to heck, Mr. or Mrs. Alien! I would say Fuck You, but kids our age haven't started talking like that. If we did, our parents, who will be home any second now, would wash out our mouths with soap, and I don't mean that Irish Spring crap that's bound to be invented for future use. I'm talking Boraxo, baby!" That's what I would have said.