Shit, I'm going to be twenty-four in a few weeks. I went to a bar the other night--a classy place, nice neighborhood pub, not some dive where they don't care--and they didn't card me.
According to a disturbingly large portion of society and of the commenters on the eighteen post, I'm mostly used up already. I mean, I don't have wrinkles or gray hairs or anything like that, so I'm not quite dead, but I'm clearly adult and that's a pretty big turn off, better face it honey. My sexual street value--an objective and universally agreed number--is plummeting. Appearance aside, at this point I'm already too old to get off to a really good start in professional acting or modeling or porn. "Hollywood has three ages--Babe, District Attorney, and Driving Miss Daisy" and at 23, I think I'm reaching the end of my District Attorney phase.
Being so elderly, I'm no longer as fertile as I once was, and evolution naturally drives men away from my barren, near-menopausal womb. Men look for signs of health, you see, and the incipient heart disease and osteoporosis wracking my fragile, bent frame are unattractive. It's all very well to be politically correct, you know, but if you want to be honest with me, you have to admit that I'm no longer worth as many goats as I once was.
Ah well. Maybe I can be a cougar.
Or maybe creeps who want to fuck teenagers because they're creeps can't fucking own up to it.