Once upon a time, when I was in fifth grade, perhaps, I attempted to wield a modicum of power by issuing these rules for entering my room.
If you can't make out the very authoritative, written-in-highlighter prose, it says:
Rules: You must like Debbie Gibson or New Kids on the Block to enter. You have to be my friend or family.* No people under 6 allowed.** You have to be able to tolerate a mess.***
For added emphasis, there are the three declarations of "luv" for the following: Debbie Gibson, Joe McIntyre and dogs.
* Because we got a lot of strangers wandering around the second floor of my parents' house.
** And how old was my brother at that time? Five! Snap!!
*** My room strewn as it was with my COLLECTION OF HATS because Deborah Ann Gibson (a.k.a. DAG)**** had a HAT COLLECTION.
**** In each issue of Sassy magazine, it introduced a new "word." One time it was "dag" or "daggy." Definition: Loser or lame. The writer commented "is it a coincidence that Debbie's Gibson's initials spell 'dag'? I think not." Sooo mean.