If I am twenty-two, it is only because I have slept with
twenty-two men and not due to any other assortment of factors, namely the
number of trips I’ve made around the sun. If I am twenty-two, it is because I
chose to be twenty-two. That makes you eleven and counting. Fine. Consequently,
I’m 100% a pedophile. If only you were sixteen and a half—I’d more acceptably
be 50% a pedophile. But unfortunately for my own reputation, you haven’t been
as much of a whore as I am. And frankly, those good things came to an end for
me recently. I know some days you look to me for how to live your life. Fine.
I’ll father your mommy issues with my own daddy ones and give birth to one big,
happy family. Age is but a number, but a number is the difference between three
and two. If you want more birthdays, you can have them, and I’ll watch as you
go from a boy to a man. I’ll watch you learn how to handle a woman. And in the
meantime, I’ll keep getting younger than you. Younger every year until I’m just
a girl you don’t know how to handle anymore. Because shhhhh, I know. I know
that’s how you like it, daddy.
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