School my foot. Who’s going to send me to school? The ghosts of my long dead parents? My son? The dogs?
I’ve got all the diplomas I’ll ever need, thank you very much. Just because I get back a young body won’t give anyone proprietary rights over me. I’m an adult with all the privileges (???) thereof. Social Security. Pensions. Senior discounts might be a bit tricky, but hey, I think I could explain this is a very new kind of plastic surgery. I’m pretty sure I could sell that. By 12 I had my full height and I was a smart as I would ever be.
Smarter. We reach our maximum intelligence in our early teens. Seems like a waste, but it isn’t really. That’s when we are collecting the knowledge that will enable us to decide what want to do with the rest of our lives. In this case, I already know. I know what I want and I know how to get there. I know what to avoid, which may be the most important part. It’s a perfect second life. With all the body parts still working and a foreknowledge of what may come.
So. To the good part. A 12-year-old body you say? Before I broke my back. I get the chance to protect my spine and avoid the big problems I’ve got today. How long do I get to keep it? Permanently works for me.
There are some issues to be worked out. Young, growing bodies have needs. But in my head, I’m old and wily, so I know what to do. I have the body of a youngster, the brain of a senior. Oh joyous best of both worlds! Garry has to be 12 too! This wouldn’t be fun without him.
We will have legs that can run and minds that remember everything. But this time, without dysfunctional parents and all those stupid rules? Zoltar, if this be revenge, how sweet it is.
Bring it ON! I am so ready.