Forever 21

Twenty-one is a dangerous age, I’ve said so before. I’m not even pertaining to myself the ill-advised things I did. I’m referring to other girls, smart, sensible and beautiful girls—smarter, more sensible and more beautiful than I ever was or ever could’ve hoped to be at that age. None of that matters because, at 21, we are all sitting ducks to any smooth-talking, good-looking, hopelessly alluring bad boy or douchebag that come come our way.

No amount of caveats, admonitions or horror stories will ever deter reckless and foolhardy 21 year-old girls off their doomed path. I, the most reckless and foolhardy of them all, would know.   

Of course losing your head for a boy who is so wrong for you is practically a rite of passage. But at that hapless age of 21, when you are just itching to make daring, albeit stupid, leaps of faith, the douche bag’s charm is at its most potent.

And so it goes, they treat you like crap because they know no better, they make you doubt your worth, they break your heart so bad, thoroughly strip you of all hope for a happy ending and, most baffling of all, they make you believe you’ll never find someone better when in fact they were not even nearly good enough.

Mercifully what I found irresistible at 21 now repulse me. Sometimes I find myself thinking that thanks to them douchebags, I learned what NOT to look for in a man—but I really don’t want to give them that much credit.

Me, 21 and chain-smokin'