Now, I know what you’re thinking. I’m only eight years old and couldn’t possibly know the most proper scheduling for my nightly repose. You see, I’m now at a crossroads in life. One in which I shall be forced to determine whether or not you are in fact capable of my rearing. Although I do suspect you incapable of such, I’m willing to give you the benefit of my consideration. However, I will need more hours in my day if I’m going to contemplate such a vital issue in addition to my regimen of Playstation 3 and backyard explosive tests.

Of course, there will have to be some ground rules for this discussion. I’ll agree not to use any big words if you’ll agree to make some Kool-Aid that doesn’t taste like a liquefied stalk of celery. Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t intend for this to get personal, but you just seem to bring it out in me, this deep-seated desire to emotionally destroy you.

Oh, but that’s not what we’re here for. Regarding my bedtime, let’s set up a time for me to explain the nuances in my ‘Baxter stays up late’ plan. I’ll see you in the morning, mother.