Well, this is embarrassing. It seems I've come down with something. A disease that's been afflicting millions has finally caught up with me.
A certain fever.
Of the Bieber variety.
As in Justin Bieber.
It's kind of like announcing you have an STD. But with a lot less itching and burning.
Just so we're clear, I do not like Justin Bieber's music. Just Justin Bieber.
Oh stop judging me. It's not like I wanted this to happen. I know you're expecting me to add: it just did. But I won't. Because it wasn't a one night stand. It evolved as any proper relationship should. Over time.
Me and the Bieb started out like you and that douchey guy at the bar. You know the one. You're amazed he can stop lifting up his shirt and admiring his six pack long enough to hit on you. And you're like, "Ugh get this tool away from me."
That's how I was with Justin the first time I heard his music. Repulsed. Okay, maybe that's a little harsh. There was just so much build up about this kid with an amazing voice who became famous from YouTube. And when I finally heard his music, baby, baby, baby, I was like really? This is a joke right?
But apparently? It's not.
Like the douchey guy at the bar. He buys you a drink, gives you a line. It's cheesy and you both know it. He smiles. He has dimples. He seems less douchey. Kinda...charming? Not quite, but he's starting to grow on you.
As did the Bieb when he and Shaq went toe to toe on the basketball court. And wow... he has skills. The Bieb. Not Shaq. I mean, of course Shaq has skills, he's a professional. I expected him to be good. But the doll-faced boy who swings his hair and makes the pre-teens swoon? Dribbling and shooting and making baskets was not what I expected.
Then he challenged Shaq to a dance off. And guess what? I hate to say it. Truly I do.
The kid can move.
And my repulsion started to melt. The wall started to crumble. But I wasn't smitten yet.
You're willing to dance with the douchey guy, a little butt/crotch grinding. But you're not willing to give him your phone number at the end of the night.
That's where the Bieb and I stood.
And then I read about him in Vanity Fair while waiting to have my lady parts probed at the Gyno's office. I didn't want to read about him. I really didn't. I read Good Housekeeping. A parenting magazine. People. But there he was, with his swoop. Beckoning.
I devoured the article like a fat kid does cake.
And I could feel it coming. Heart palpitations. Sweaty palms. Rise in temperature. I was infected.
Put it down! Stop reading! A voice somewhere deep inside me, growing smaller by the second, urged.
By the time I was finished reading, the infection had spread. I ignored it. But doing nothing only made it worse. Just like an STD. Sure it may lie (lay?) dormant for awhile. Until your next sexual encounter. And then it's back with a vengeance. Or so I hear. I don't personally know. Ew. STD's are gross. Not that I'm judging you if you've had one. I'm just saying, maybe you should be less of a whore. You know, don't go home with the douchey bar guy. Even though he's saying all the right things, has all the right moves. It's only going to end badly. He won't call. You'll cry. And that walk of shame will be nothing compared to that disgraceful trek to the Women's Clinic because YOU JUST CAN'T STAND THE ITCHING ANY LONGER!!! And don't even try the "I must have got it from a public toilet," line. Nobody buys that crap. Everyone knows you're a whore. And they'll judge you.
But not me. Because sometimes? Things happen. Like reading a Vanity Fair article.
I left my Gyno thinking I had everything under control.
But the fever? It was in me. Waiting for the opportunity to flare up.
Cue Chelsea Handler. She had the Bieb on her show. He said all of five words. But they were the right words. Said in that way.
And I was done for. Officially obsessed. The Bieb and I? We're connected. No amount of medicine, cooling balms, denial, support groups or looking at photos-of-lesbians-who-look-like-Justin-Bieber is going to change that.
As for you? Go ahead. Take as many pregnancy tests as you want. They're all going to say the same thing. You're having the douchey guy's baby. Making the two of you linked.
You feel bad for judging me now, don't you?