Hey, Chris, wassup? Excited to hang out later? Oh, Jesus, dude, don’t call it a fucking playdate- ’cause we’re not sixth graders anymore, that’s why! Huh, what’s that? Your parents won’t let you go to the mall by yourself? Jesus Christ, dude, we’re thirteen! They can’t tell us what to do! And we sure as hell don’t need them! Now grow some fucking balls, call your mom, and demand that she drive us to the mall!

You need to be more like me, man: independent! Like, last week I was at the pizza place with Tom and suddenly my mom calls and starts bitching about how I’m gonna miss my little sister’s flute recital, so I need to leave, like, now. And I was like, “Screw her! I just ordered a calzone!” Yeah, I totally showed her, huh? And then Mom was all like, “Well, then, you can just walk home, can’t you?” But we both knew that wasn’t gonna happen. I called an hour later, told her how cold it was, and how it was so dark- dude, she was there within five minutes. And when we got home she made me Bagel Bites.

So here’s what’s gonna happen: we’re gonna go to the mall and get kicked out of the food court and Spencer’s Gifts. Like real adults. You want to see an R-rated movie? You want to buy a CD with a warning sticker on it? We’ll fucking do it, man!

Oh, but we can’t stay past 5 – I’m visiting my Grandma. And we can’t forget to pick up the silverware from Williams-Sonoma.

Trust me, dude, you don’t want to mess with my mom on that one.