Watching “Justin Bieber: Never Say Never” made me feel baby crazy.

Is that weird?

We watched that Justin Bieber documentary last night, because it looked good. F#ck yeah we did. We don’t hate. We’ll watch whatever. Yes! I think that, between the two of us, before last night, we were able to identify exactly one chorus to one Justin Bieber song (I was like baby baby baby), and neither of us had any idea of how old the kid actually is (I thought he was more like Taylor Swift’s age. Joey was totally clueless.) but in the end, the reviews looked good and so we watched it. Turns out: IT’S GOOD! And while we won’t personally be blasting any Bieber tunes from the car any time in the near future, this snugglepuss totally won our hearts. I mean, he like totally won our hearts. His childhood, his little bitty sadness, his hurt vocal chords, his songs about lonely girls, his desire to be a normal little boy running around Ontario with just a hoodie and his buddies and a song in his heart…

I think I almost lost it…OMG THIS LITTLE CHILD. Look at you! I want to wrap you up in a Power Rangers blanket and give you a mug of hot cocoa and sing you songs about happy birds when you’re feeling blue. I want to stuff you in my purse and take you home and tuck you in and read you chapters from like, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets until your little eyelids get heavy and you fall asleep. I want to snuggle you to death?

What I’m saying is: Watching this Justin Bieber documentary was like watching two hours of sneezy kitten videos on youtube. I almost had a freaking aneurism from all the cute. Cute attack! Holy snuggles sh1t! That crap doesn’t make you boy crazy. It makes you baby crazy.

DIGRESSION: Back in 1997, I was convinced that I would marry Taylor Hanson and everything would be all right that way. It was a terrible, tragic, desperate love, and I commiserate with every single one of these Bieber Fever girls and their crying and their obsession and their fan fiction and all that time they spend making signs and painting glitter on their eyelids and stacking board games on top of desk chairs to get high enough so you can start taping posters onto your bedroom ceiling because you’ve run out of space on your actual walls.



But things are different now. I’m a grown-up? Ish. I’m a writer, so I’ll never really be a grown-up, but I’m grown-up enough to know the difference between the way I felt about teenage idols when I was twelve and the way I feel about them now…IT’S VERY DIFFERENT. And while I still totally harbor my celebrity crushes (what girl doesn’t?) the types of celebrities I have crushes on now are typically much older (#Clooney) or like, white lightning wide receivers for the Green Bay Packers. Things change, you know? But now I really truly do understand what it means to be like, a boy-crazy, life-long teenybopper getting into your late twenties: You no longer want to marry the teen boy sensation du jour. You want to like, adopt him.

Justin Bieber, will you be my child? Just kidding. I mean, sort of.

Every former (and current) teenybopping girl should watch this movie, even if you don’t know anything about Justin Bieber. It doesn’t matter which decade you were teenybopping in. It will bring back memories of your days of ‘NSync and Hanson and Backstreet mania. Or maybe like, New Kids on the Block? I don’t know how old you are. It’ll be like a bonding moment with you and the TV and all these other girls who are you fifteen or twenty years ago–screaming and stomping and crying and getting confused by this strange activity of the security guards. Lay off! We’re twelve! What kind of damage can we do?

(Lots, I say. What is more powerful than the pure, undiluted love of a teenage girl? NOTHING. Rhinoceros mode! Stampede! Stampede! We were goddesses then.)

But I’d lay off the wine. Unless you want to be a blubbering train wreck. One glass of Chardonnay ONLY for this one, girls. Anyway, that’s my sh1t.

Peace, love, and Justin Bieber floating in a heart, playing his acoustic guitar and singing at Madison Square Garden,

#usmile #ismile



About Hey, Sugar.

writer of fictions, mild midwesterner, girl power, happy.
This entry was posted in feminism, rando, women and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

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