Once upon a time, there was a girl named Alejandra. Alejandra was good and sweet, and one day Alejandra got to go to a Backstreet Boys concert.
Alejandra danced the night away in the front row, and Kevin Richardson, Prince Charming himself, gave her a teddy bear, proof of his undying love. Alejandra, being good and sweet, wrote an article for The Harvard Crimson about the concert and her adoration of the Fab Five. But alas, the bell tolled midnight, and Alejandra's coach turned into a pumpkin, her gown to tatters and her reputation to dirt.
:upscale()/2023/03/27/853/n/1922398/tmp_NWQ8D3_d49f20ddfc5cf2f8_unprisoned_105_km_00947rt.jpg "Teen girls Richardson")
But, as we all know from Professor Tatar's lectures, every heroine has to be in the dumps before she can triumph victorious. Well, let me tell you, I've been in the gutter ever since my ill-fated article went to print. After that fateful day, my blocking group shunned me away into nowheredom, boys stopped dating me, people whispered behind me in the dining hall, and I was forced to face the constant taunting of my prefectees, who officially dubbed me the "loser prefect.
But after I professed my perfectly legitimate love of the Backstreet Boys to the world, I became a freak. But did I care? I didn't care back then, and I don't care now. Go ahead, arch those eyebrows. Make fun of me with your post-modern metaphysical over-analytical gibberish. Tell me exactly how many steps backwards I am setting the feminist movement with my Beatles-esque boy-band adoration. It's high time that someone took a stand. So, with my knock-out yellow halter top, glittery eye shadow and precious teddy bear, I will proudly stand up.
I will be your teenybopper. But now I am a year older, and a year wiser. And although Kevin Richardson will forever remain my Prince Charming, it was time for something new.
