It was different back in year seven when none of us really read magazines like Cleo or Cosmopolitan. The girls in my year at my all-girls college were just like me: we didn’t wear makeup, we didn’t obsess over clothes, and we didn’t judge others based on appearance so much.
Most of us were just disappointed that there was no playground or school oval we could access at lunchtime. It was a year of big transitions, certainly, but it was also the year that I would miss the most during the remainder of my time at high school.
All too soon we became addicted to magazines like Cleo and Cosmopolitan.
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“What girl doesn’t melt at the sight of a hot guy with a cute dog?”
With those words, a testament to the complex and slightly weird sexuality of women, Cleo magazine’s annual meat wagon, its Bachelor Of The Year competition, was rolled out.
Flying thick and fast, as the announcement of the winner was made, were double entendres like: “Eamon Sullivan BEATS OFF STIFF competition to win”, “it was a HARD decision”, and “CLEO Bachelor of the Year winner REVEALED.”
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