G’day, Mrs. Robinson 

In an email titled “Goddamn whippersnapper,” a friend sent me this Buzzfeed article, and I need someone to make this guy NOT 20. He can’t be 20. He doesn’t look 20. That is massively unfair, as is this lady boner I have for him. 

 I am a goddamn dirty old lady. I could have babysat him. I could not, legally*, get him drunk enough to fuck me, because you know he only bangs other 20-year-old supermodels and, in his eyes, I might as well be that vat of fat Oprah wheeled out in the wagon that time, a reference this guy WOULD NOT GET BECAUSE HE IS FUCKING TWENTY. Twen-TY.

My vagina doesn’t seem to care about any of this information. I’ll be in my bunk.

*The friend points out that I COULD legally get him drunk enough to fuck me in his home country, so now I’m looking into flights to Australia, as well as the safest ways to approach and cuddle koalas, and the going rate for a keg of Foster’s. (Note to self: Rent Crocodile Dundee. I bet he’s never seen THAT, either. I have so much to teach him, you guys. First and fore[play]most: how appreciative middle-aged women can be when you go down on them.)

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