An open letter to the best and worst thing in our lives...
We will be honest with you. You are a precocious, little shit of a nine-year-old.
When we were nine, we spent most of our time falling off bicycles and picking the scabs off our knees.
You don’t even have any knees.
You just kind of float about annoying all the grown-ups, like a snotty-nosed brat passing round the crisps at a terrible party. Why do you insist on sharing every whisper, every word, from one corner of the room to the other? Scurrying between the guests and passing pictures and messages like nobody’s business… It IS nobody’s business.
Why don’t you run along and play with the other children? We suppose that Myspace character is a bit older and must be locked in a dirty bathroom, shooting heroin, or playing bad guitar in a garage.
What about Twitter? You’re right, that kid is a bit ADHD. A manic look in the eyes, that one.
We admit, you have helped us out a few times. We don’t have to actually ask for anyone’s number anymore. But it’s creepy when you’ve already shown us someone’s picture before we actually meet them.
We can still remember when you were just a skinny, little shy kid, making occasional noises in the corner, as if you had learning problems. Now, bloody hell… You’ve become almost morbidly obese. Gigantic and perversely over-confident. You should probably be careful. Nobody likes a fat kid, especially a know-it-all.
Finally, a word of warning: Macaulay Culkin was nine when he was in Home Alone. Now look at him.