There was a time in my life, a time before this newfangled distraction called "the internet," and before a slightly more established distraction called "high school," when all I used to do was read books.  Like, eight hours a day, Anne of Green Gables, a Tree Grows in Brooklyn, Gone with the Wind (twice. I had a lot of time on my hands, okay?).  At the age of 9, young and impressionable, I managed to tear my way through like, 100 of the mass-produced marshmallow fluff tween series Babysitters Club (whatever, I totally read Wuthering Heights too.  And Jane Eyre.  Although don't ask me to recite the plot).

Anyway, today I found myself absentmindedly asking if someone's 21-year-old brother was cute, which is ridiculous for myriad reasons, not the least of which is that I'm 16 and he's far too old for me.  And suddenly, I had a revelation - my problems today all stem from reading this single book - #8: Boy-Crazy Stacey.  Oh yeah, and the entire Sweet Valley High series.  Where were my parents??  How could they have let me consume this drivel????  WHY DID STACEY SPELL HER NAME WITH A GODDAMN EXTRANEOUS "E"??

Ann M. Martin, wherever you are, we need to talk.  I was a feminist!  You ruined me!

Although I suppose I should consider the alternative ... Gossip Girls, anyone?  Yikes.  I may be boy-crazy, but I didn't have a coke problem at the age of fifteen.  By 17, though ...  oh wait.  Nope.  Not then either.

Nothing like starting off Monday morning with a healthy dose of holier-than-thou-kids-today nostalgia.