Imagine If I Were 18

Imagine if I were 18, or even 20 years old.  I could talk of the world as if I were over it, skeptical and sarcastic.  No one would even care; it would be, in fact, expected for my world view to include sardonic song lyrics that accused all white men of being part of a conspiracy or spat iconic insults at so-called leaders in the world for their failures and irresponsibility.  My somewhat disjointed outlook for my life and my future would be accepted as part of my place in the time-space continuum.

But I’m nearly 40 and that is not what is expected or allowed in proper journalism from one such as I – a “lady” no less – to espouse.  Instead I should know where I’ve been and where I’m going and have a particular view on politics and foreign relations.  It isn’t right.

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