I’m twenty-three years old and I’m already being replaced by younger women—scratch that—girls. Sure, their boobs might be perkier and their nubile bodies may not have years and pounds of alcohol and comfort foods appended to their hips, but honestly, what is so alluring about a pre-pubescent chick who has no life experience? Oh God, I sound like my mother post-divorce, mid-hellacious dating, pre-finding the last good man on earth. But she was forty-five; mother of three. Not twenty-three, with no children. Hell no. Keep reading »
