You’ve accidentally called it The Facebook or The Twitter—even just once.
You catch a glimpse of yourself in your living room mirror and wonder what your mother is doing at your house.
You’re the only one in your exercise class with a visible panty line—because you’re the only one who still wears underwear with yoga pants.
You catch yourself feeling sexually aroused by someone who can fix your computer or smartphone.
You’re 99.9 percent sure that when the phone rings at 11:30 pm, it’s not a booty call.
You grew up Bond, not Bourne.
You had apples, not Apples, in your college dorm room.
You cannot identify anyone on the covers of the tabloids anymore.
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