When I was a kid, when I was a little boy, I always wanted to be a dinosaur. I wanted to be a Tyrannosaurus Rex more than anything in the world. I made my arms short and I roamed the backyard, I chased the neighborhood cats, I growled and I roared. Everybody knew me and was afraid of me. And one day my dad said, “Bobby, you are 17. It’s time to throw childish things aside,” and I said, “Okay, Pop.” But he didn’t really say that, he said, “Stop being a fucking dinosaur and get a job.”
When I was a kid, when I was a little boy, I always wanted to be a dinosaur. I wanted to be a Tyrannosaurus Rex more than anything in the world. I made my arms short and I roamed the backyard, I chased the neighborhood cats, I growled and I roared. Everybody knew me and was afraid of me. And one day my dad said, “Bobby, you are 17. It’s time to throw childish things aside,” and I said, “Okay, Pop.” But he didn’t really say that, he said, “Stop being a fucking dinosaur and get a job.”
But Dad he’s right. You can’t be a dinosaur. It’s not possible.