When I was thirteen, my two girlfriends and I went to the mall to get matching t-shirts to wear. We chose black shirts with a sparkly pink panther iron-on, and stood and waited while the bored eighteen-year-old with her summer job made them for us. As an added bonus, we agreed to get our names spelled out in fat white fuzzy letters on the back. Having been the first teenagers to ever consider (much less follow through with) such a brilliant idea, we didn’t realize the consequences until we had been proudly strutting our shirts in said mall for oh, three to four minutes. That was about when every boy in the mall with rudimentary reading skills (we discovered that covered quite an age span, incidentally) began to call out our names. I don’t recall that we ever wore those shirts out in public after that day.