I'm only twenty, but I'm already feeling the way I think I'll feel when I've had kids and grandkids and contentedly plotting the epitaph on my tombstone. Funny, eh, considering I'm a bachelor. NOT spinster, mind you, it's bachelor. I may sound like a victim of sexual stereotyping, but I honestly admit the word "spinster" brings to mind a grouchy old misandrist who knits sweaters by the fire, plays cards with other grouchy old misandrists and frowns at the pretty young thing next door who's all over her TDH fiance. Yay for gender equality. I'd say such terms are politically correct considering that in this age of metrosexuality, the lines between the genders so firmly drawn by our forefathers have been erased, if not altogether blurred. David Beckham has made it perfectly acceptable to be seen prancing around in your better half's innerwear and drag parties have moved from privately booked hotel rooms to practically right outside your door. I must admit that the sight of seeing strapping young men with Anne-Frenched legs and lacy brassieres (borrowed from us) peeking out of their spaghetti strap tops made our welcoming party in college something of a meteor shower.
Okay, back to me...I'm an eternal bachelor. Make that eligible eternal bachelor. I mean, I could do all that girls of my age are expected to want to do but keep it hidden, but my late grandfather has left behind an awesome collection of books... and I really can't afford to be disowned and lose my inheritance. So I keep that halo around my head in its place and roam around frustrated like a ghost who's haunting bungalows and vowing revenge, all for a shelf filled with dusty books that I'll probably put away in another shelf.