I think I’m in love!
No wait, I was just hungry…
There’s a line from a Garth Brooks song that says “Sometimes I thank God for unanswered prayers.” Without that sentiment, I’d be married to David Cassidy.
I was tripping on LSD (lead singer disorder), when an unfamiliar purr tickled my wispy down-there fur.
David was mouthing I think I love you directly to ME. I longed to finger his feathered hair, and snag a shag (haircut) of my own.
As luck would have it, Cupid’s arrow misfired, because this Partridge ran a-fowl of the law.
Tiger Beat posters of Donnie Osmond, Shaun Cassidy, and Michael Jackson lined our walls. Back when MJ was black, then never went back. Before bad and beat it.
But my quest for puppy love didn’t end there. I was learning about sense and sensuality, one crush at a time.
I penned a letter to Tommy Bradford from Eight Is Enough asking for an autograph, secretly hoping for a marriage proposal.
My heart soared then sunk when Willie Aames finally responded in a form letter addressed Dear Friend. I keep that rejection locked inside my tickle trunk.
We whispered about losing our virginity to Little Darling(s) Matt Dillon. And why would Andrew McCarthy cross the tracks for Molly Ringwald when she had nothing on me?
Our celebrity infatuations with their dreamy hair changed daily. Next to my teen idols, the baby boys from high school couldn’t possibly compete.
Age is detrimental to careers built on looks over talent. When the hairline recedes, so does the spotlight.
Too often, lifestyles of the newly emancipated begin with recreational drugs, and end in community service.
Rob Lowe is the last man standing on my heartthrob to-do list, and although he’s prettier than me, he’s perfect!
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