Somewhere along the line, somebody (perhaps a big purple dinosaur?) probably told you that you were special. This was probably a blanket statement made to you and others with no proof whatsoever, meant to bolster your self-esteem (or maybe more maniacally to crush it to smithereens when you finally discover that it was all lies, lies, lies). Or it was a commentary on the innocence and potential of youth. Or something like that. The constant refrain of a song repeated endlessly until everyone is confused. (Much like the confusion about actual songs — seriously, who the heck was Mary, and why did she have a lamb? Where did you she get it? Who was dumb enough to let her bring it to school? Did she get detention? Was the lamb eventually slaughtered and eaten? I mean, let’s get some real answers here.)
But if you’re going to maintain this idea that you are special, you’re going to need something to go on before long. I am special. You know why? Because you’re not supposed to be able to tickle yourself, and I can totally tickle the roof of my mouth with my tongue. BAM. Special.