Wait. I got one more.

From the aforementioned Worst Album Covers Ever.

I’ve had some uneventful birthdays in my time. There are actually some years where I don’t get to do a half bag of blow and do 125 mph through the LaFontaine tunnel with those two Ukrainian models I met at NewTown. Sometimes, it’s just drinks with friends. But man, Julie’s sixteenth birthday looks like it totally sucked.

First of all, there is no way Julie is sixteen. Julie is at least 24, desperately clinging to sixteen. And if she really is sixteen, what is she doing in a bar with that old guy who looks disturbingly like Torgo?

I think on Julie’s “sixteenth” birthday, Julie came to a realisation that her life didn’t end up quite how she expected. When she first met John Bult, she found him to be a roguish, balladeer, with a twinkle in his eye and the phone number of a decent pot dealer. But as time went on, Julie found she was pulling double shifts at the hospital to “lend” this guy some money to help out with some “credit card issues.” And Roger the orderly, who had been asking her out recently, had lost interest.

Until this point, their romance had consisted of Julie’s dutiful attendance to John’s Tuesday night gig at The Buccaneer Pub on Manawoganish Road. She would then accompany him to some party in a sketchy part of town. She didn’t know anyone and suspected that he didn’t either. But she would stay on, listening to his songs, which he would invariably dedicate to a “special lady,” and she would go home when someone pulled a knife or the cops showed up.

Tonight on her “sixteenth” birthday, Julie knew that at some point, her new singer-songwriter boyfriend would lean in close to her face, stinking of sweat, cigarettes, and cheap beer and try to kiss her. She’ll pull away, dab her eyes, smudging her blue eye shadow and walk out the door, never to return to the Buccaneer’s again, even for its famous steak n’ eggs Sunday breakfast.

..or maybe I’m the only guy who gets a weird David Adams Richards vibe off that picture…

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