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I’m still not convinced though that if I were eighteen, I’d
be a Justin Bieber fan. Oh, if I was thirteen, maybe. Yet, he’s eighteen and if
he were interested in a thirteen year old, well, we’d soon be seeing his name
on a certain list! Perhaps his handlers are keeping him perpetually thirteen
just to tap into that market. Somehow, I see that ending badly. I guess that’s
why, at age thirteen, I didn’t become Mrs. David Cassidy after all.
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It’s such a double standard, even in this day and age that
seeing a twenty-three year old woman with, oh, say Sean Connery as her
boyfriend, is considered normal, but if I were to date a twenty-three year old,
people would just consider that I’m taking my son out to dinner and a movie,
and not on a date. I realize that the Cougar thing didn’t exactly work out well
for Demi Moore, who is our poster-child for rocking the age of forty-nine. But
at least I can still dream of my youth as I scarf down my Ensure, adjust the
fit of my Depends, and throw back some Geritol while I watch the boys’ goings
and comings through my front picture window. Hey, it’s not technically stalking
if you happen to own the property across from the place where you are actually
stalking, right? These days Taylor Swift has validated my evil plan
brilliantly, even if I was here first.
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