Sorry, what was that little guy? It’s hard to here you all the way up here. See, I’m six foot and three inches. Numerically that’s 6’3″ so you could say I’m a pretty big guy. When small fries like you come on, toddling around in your big grown up shoes, letting your dad’s shirt swing past your knees, talking all sorts of nonsense, I tend to get a mite riled, you know? It’s like a shark and an injured seal. A bear-fighting dog and a squeaky little chew toy. Just the thought I could literally step on you and crush you beneath my shoe like an ant gets my blood pumping. I could pick you up and throw you around the room as hard as I can against the walls and just smash your fragile, small body to pieces, just for fun. I imagine you’d make funny little gnome-like noises of pain and terror and get all red and try to look for something to curl to intimidate me, but I’ve already put all the cheerios and toothpicks away, and you’re just left alone with your microscopic, pathetic frame cowering in the opulent shadow of my enormous and hulking presence.