So, I was sitting around tonight celebrating my spirit…no, no, I hate that fucking shit. I hate all that Oprah-esque, Ladies Home Journaling, making the most of what sorry-ass less-than years by sitting around and knitting scarves and organizing your spices and reading affirmations bullshit. And, as I figure I’m about equidistance between my first orgasm and menopause, I got some time I got to use wisely.
It’s use it or lose it time. And I ain’t going out like that.
Basically, there are a lot of people I’ve met over the past couple weeks who’ve been ballparking my age in the late 20s, but 28 seems to be the consensus and by fucking God, I’ll take it. By some random act of kindness by the powers that be—and the fact that sunscreen, sleep and exercise have somehow warded off the effects of smoking, drinking and drugging thus far—I look a bit younger than I actually am. So, I officially proclaim that I am 28 (again!) this summer for all intense purposes. And by intense purposes I mean fucking hot guys, doing exactly what I want and taking no shit from anyone.
Why 28, you ask? Well, another reason I picked the 28 is that I didn’t really get to enjoy my 28th year. That is the year you should really be living up your 20s. You’re old enough to know way better than those idiots right out of college, but you’re still really hot and ready to roll. I spent my 28th year sleeping on an air mattress, listening to my ex roll around in a puddle of his own vomit. In other words, it was quite the opposite of fun.
I’ve also really been noticing a lot of the double standards lately—and I refuse to participate in this. I refuse to believe that because you are of a certain age as a lady that your life must become consumed with the trappings and the clichés that television, film and other pop-culture droppings would have you believe, i.e. marriage, babies, plastic surgery, etc. It seems to me that women can use these years for better purposes—and for me, that purpose is Extreme Fun.
I am feeling most Extreme—action-figure Extreme. I am not going to eat, pray, love my way to enlightenment. I have vowed to keep trying new stuff I want to try—like the surfing—and to visit at least one new country every year until I die. I just bought a bike so I can be superfast ripping around the city in my motorcycle boots. Oh, and what’s that? Awesome superdog can’t be far behind. My superdog will come running with me, and we will hang out at the super dogpark and pick up a super hot guy to then superfuck.
Anyway, this is my plan for the summer. I really don’t care if you know me and you think I don’t look 28. You can keep that shit to yourself. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a neverending 28 until I’m the old bitch in your neighborhood who sits on her porch, listening to Guns n’ Roses and yelling at you to get the fuck off my lawn.