Sunday, May 26, 2013

An open letter to young girls everywhere...

Hello ladies.  How's Justin Bieber? I assume that you like him, I apologize if that is grossly ignorant of me and you really have more sophisticated taste like Chris Brown or something.  Did you see Justin Bieber got booed at the gdhsgjkds awards?    Confession time: I don't really know anything about Justin Bieber except that he once said that he hoped that if Anne Frank were alive that she would be a Belieber.  Heart. Be. Still.

Anyways, that was really just my weak attempt to relate to you gallies, because, if we are going to be honest with each other, we know that we don't have much in common.  And I know that you never really listen to people like me (case in point the one negative eval I got for Fall 2012 semester was by a young lass who said the most effective thing about my course was that she got cerrredit for it.  And yes, I tots know who you are Miss handwriting that bears a striking resemblance to Lucinda handwriting font), but I thought I would just pass along some friendly advice that you can then promptly ignore before getting back to mean tweeting Kim Kardashian about being a big fat dumb pregnant heifer.

First of all, we need to talk about your wardrobe. Do you know when wearing sheer tops with nothing but a dark colored bra underneath became acceptable going to class attire?  Because I sure don't.  Maybe I didn't get the memo or maybe my father just loved me enough growing up but girlfriend, (and you should know that I never say that,) if your professor can see a bug bite on your stomach through your shirt, it's a problem.  You might need to rethink your life decisions.  I am all for you being empowered and dressing your body in the way you see fit but this screams more "I am confused about what it means to be sexy and how to get attention, so I will just go ahead and emulate prostitutes!" and less "I am transgressing gender norms and advancing the rights of women!"  It's a tricky distinction, I know.

This brings me to my next point.  Leggings are NOT pants.  Tights are NOT pants.  Pants are pants. I don't know who told you otherwise but I can tell you with 100% certainty that this person maliciously lied to you.  They wanted you to look like a loony old man who forgot to put on his trousers before he drove down to CVS.  Not so cute if you didn't come of age during the Truman administration.

Sorry if this offends your delicate sensibilities but we needed a visual aid here. (Also, if you have delicate sensibilities you probably shouldn't be reading this blog...)

We also really need to discuss your reading habits.  I am not talking about gossip magazines; my morning routine has been known to include the checking of an US Weekly app on my iPhone, so I can hop off from atop my majestic high horse on that one.   But this...

...this is unacceptable.

This is also unacceptable:

Girls.  You need to stop.  Just stop.  I mean it.  That is all I can say on the matter because this makes me feel like I want to die.

But not really.

But maybe a little bit.

And do you want to be responsible for my untimely death?  I didn't think so because we both know that I would be one real B of a ghost.

The last thing we really need to hash out is your relationship with boys.  I imagine that this is one of those lessons that you first have to let get you pregnant and then abandon you on the way to the clinic to learn but there are certain types of guys that are not worth spending your time on.

If you had the choice between this man:

And this man:

Who would you choose?

I bet the vast majority of you young-ins would pick the first guy.  He looks effortlessly cool.  He's smoking.  He seems like the type of guy who is tough and sullen but secretly has a heart of gold and all he needs is just the right woman--you--to change him into a happy well-adjusted person (who is only slightly still inclined to brooding).  But guess what gals?  That man does not exist.  All you will get out of the first guy is months, possibly years of heart-ache, dissatisfaction because he doesn't care what you want, and being treated like dirt's lesser and weirder sister.

My whole life, I have chosen men like bachelor number two.  And I have been right.  Why?  Because he's smart.  He knows how to read; he knows what he wants in life. And he will worship you.  He will care deeply about your happiness and about making you feel fulfilled.

(Also if you had picked the first guy, you would have ended up with Mickey Rourke.  Suckas!  And if you had chosen the second, Mark Ruffalo would be yours, which is more apt than you may realize.)

Oh and before you go, you should know that you are the reason that stores like this exist:

Yes.  I apologize profusely for my hair.  I would like to blame humidity but as seeing how there is none in Southern California, we can pretend that it's still settling into its new shorter length and that I haven't made a huge mistake.  But we are not here to discuss me, we're here to discuss you.  If I don't see some massive changes, you should expect another intervention right around Christmas time.  And you might want to actually read a good book written by some named Charles Not-Stephanie-Meyers-Dickens to know what to expect.

Most sincerely not yours,

Wendy S. Kozak  (The "S" stands for Susan or Smug)

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