Francine Pascal, creator of the suburb-wide phenomenon of our youth "Sweet Valley High", has brought to our adult selves a piece of melodramatic nostalgia that has taken over my entire fucking day. In Sweet Valley CONFIDENTIAL, the better-than-you Wakefield twins are, swearing, fucking and (gasp) having their nipples described (awkwardly, as" taut", which I'm not sure is the right term, but whatever) in a book that aims to tie up the loose ends of a pre-teen book franchise that should've died in it's infancy.
When I was in grade school, the Wakefield twins were pillars of femininity, one ruled by reason, the other by impulse. They were the literary version of Barbies, for the girls who liked to read trash at an early age. And they were always just a little bit older than their target readers, just enough to make them seem like the glamorous older sisters we all wanted, living the affluent-super-hot-but-not-slutty-blonde life we all wanted to live.
10 years (yea, right) later, and these fool-ass bitches are 27 years old. That pissed me off immediately because those cunts were like, 17 when I was 12. Your fiction-math is wrong, Francine. My old-ass is 33. And they are living all of our dreams. They are writing off-Broadway plays, they are marrying rich dudes and fucking on yachts, they are a fabulous PR agent for make-up. That's right, all of it. All of make-up. So now, in the same way those beauty queen wonder twins would make me feel soo young and exited for the future, they are making me feel old, and bummed out on my past!! But I still can't be that mad. They're really pretty so they probably deserve everything everyone could ever want, ever.
What the hell, Francine? Fuck you.
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