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.)

Middle age love for Meghan Trainor

I’m almost 40, so obviously I was rockin’ out to “All About that Bass” in the car on the way into work this morning.

Singing along, I started wondering about this magical unicorn of a mother she had that told her “Don’t worry about your size.” According to my mother, the ONLY thing I had to worry about was my size. Oh, and using condoms. (Explains a lot, doesn’t it?)

But just in case you’d forgotten, every inch of you is perfect, from the bottom to the top. (Especially the men. Y’all have the best inches…)