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Teen pregnancy is apparently at an all-time low in the United States. Or, is it that teen abortion is at an all-time high?

According to the Center for Disease Control, the pregnancy rate for the LOL-OMG Generation has hit its lowest since tracking began 70 years ago.  

But what does that really mean?

It means that statistics tell as much of the story as a teenager after a night out with “friends.”

 
 
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You want to know what happens when schools, parents, and communities don’t do anything about bullying? One of three things:

1.    The victim to the bullying endures horrible physical, emotional, and/or mental suffering;

2.    The victim to the bullying either goes on shooting rampages or commits suicide, as we’ve sadly learned, or rather, finally acknowledged this year; and,

3.    The victim to the bullying fights back, because no one else protects him, only to face punishment.

Which brings me to the story of a 16-year-old Australian boy who rightly deserves to trump Justin Bieber as the new teen dream.

 
 
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It’s hard to write a story about being cool when you’re not cool.

But I’ll try.

I used to be cool. I think.

Dyed my hair black. Wore green contacts. Tried to make my skin look lighter. Hey, Snow White was cool.

So, what is cool now?

Well, as someone who has been on the receiving end of the rolling-of-the-eye looks from an 11-year-old, I can tell you, I am not.

I can also tell you that eleven is the new 16.

And 16 is the new cool.

 
 
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The other day, I gave my eight-year-old nephew an awesome present for his birthday. One I wished for at eight years old. One I could never have as a kid, because of six letters: D, A, H, L, I, A.

I gave him a sign for his bedroom door – with his name on it – even though he too has a unique name.

You see, in a futile effort to be uncommon, there is the mutilation of common names like, say, Khrystee and Timh. And then, with the advent of celebrity baby (read: publicity) names such as Kyd, Apple, Kal-El, and Moonblood, toy and novelty manufacturers have finally accepted that there are more than 20 names out there. Hence, they now give stickers to spell your own moniker.

So, great gift, right? It was … until the not-yet-even-a-tween opened the iPod touch from his mom.

 
 
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Tapped.

I just don’t know what to write about. With all the millions of things going on in mind, why can’t I pick just one thing and write about it?

I could tell you a story about one of my nephews.

The four-year-old decides I’m a rocket ship. He goes and gets a water bottle, and attempts to fill me up with “gas” – by pouring it in my butt.

Apparently, I have a gashole.

(But really, don’t we all?)

 
 
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Skippy isn’t just peanut butter – or Alex P. Keaton’s affable neighbour – anymore.

It is a code word for Ritalin.

And the same way “fat” has an entirely opposite meaning when spelled with a “ph,” so too does “farm.”

Welcome, to 2010. Actually, welcome to 2000, because if you think pharm parties are new, well, you’ve just been watching too much Family Ties.