Selena Gomez @ The Raise Hope For The Congo Event

Age appropriate dress for once.

The Jailbait train is about to leave the station....ALL ABOARD !!!!

she looks extremly cute!!...Sweet!...preciosa! esta bonita la niña!

young

She looks really cute as always but still so you. Maybe later girl.

Those highlights are so bad

I would love to fuck her tight ass until she starts squirming and begs me to stop! I would then shove my cock in her mouth, have her suck my cock until I'm ready to blow, nut all over her pretty face, and then have her suck the last drops of cum out of my throbbing cock!

Maybe she should go to culinary school. If she fails it's not like it will affect her gpa if she ever decides to go to college. If the acting jobs stop coming she can be a chef to the stars or something.

Hmm. She finally doesn't look like a little girl who is trying on mommy's clothes and makeup. Her stylist should be proud.

Throw that back into the water

i am not normally a fan, but she looks cute here. the haircut is adorable and she is dressed a little more age-appropriate.

Refreshing alternative to all the slutty BET award photos. More please of hottness, not booty shit.

I don't understand Selena Gomez's appeal. She's very average looking, and her face resembles that of a chipmunk.

She's a cutie.

she looks retarded

she looks like 7 years old....

I can't really think of her as jailbait, because she looks so cute...like a cute 10 year old. She seems like a sweet girl, but a post on bastardly? I thought this site was more about postings on desirable women?

Pretty girl, looks like a young kid

whomever, it is that keeps refing her /prefering over any other female/always asking for selena. doesn't show up when there's a post featuring her. *ha ha ha*

she still looks like a pig here. get the clue honey.

such a cutie!

babyfaces dont turn me on

too young and average at best

There's a girl at the local Wal-Mart who looks exactly like Sara Jean Underwood. Seriously. I'm talking spitting image. For a long time I avoided her checkout counter since I only ever seem to be buying embarrassing shit at Wal-Mart, like laxatives or hemorrhoid cream, and instead I looked for a counter with an Asian behind it.

But late one night, quite a while ago, I'm driving around and make a stop at Wal-Mart to get a few things I need before heading home. And it's one of those nights where I've downed a few and Roxette's "Joyride" is playing on the car stereo and I start feeling that way I get, that way where I could swear the Windstar is Zeus' fucking chariot and I can throw lightning bolts from my bare hands. So I swagger into the store, pick up a bottle of hand lotion, a package of toddler's tube socks, and one of those tattoo mags with the chicks on the cover, and I make a beeline for that Sara Jean look-alike's register. When she sees what I'm buying she smirks but I assume she's just laughing at my t-shirt which says something crude. It's probably my best shirt. Then she goes, "We have larger sizes in tube socks if you'd prefer those, sir," and she sort of winks at me when she says it. But I've downed a few so I'm a little slow on the uptake and go, "Nah, the small ones are great," which, in hindsight, I probably would have preferred not to say.

I guess I'm not really clear on what I thought might come of this whole episode. Like, did I think I was going to impress her or something by proving to her I shop at Wal-Mart? As if she'd think I'm really smart for recognizing Wal-Mart's low, low prices or something? I don't know; I guess I was buzzed.

Then late one night, a little while ago, I'm driving around and make a stop at Wal-Mart to get a few things I need before heading home. And it's one of those nights where I've downed more than a few and Roxette's "Dangerous" is playing on the car stereo and I start feeling that way I get, that way where I could swear the Windstar is a fucking Nimitz carrier at all-ahead flank and I'm on the bridge and my baseball cap is a combination cover with scrambled eggs on the brim. So I march into the store, pick up a jar of Vaseline, one of those Incredible Hulk plastic fists, and a "Get Well Soon" greeting card and make a beeline for that Sara Jean look-alike's register. When she sees what I'm buying she covers her mouth and scrunches up her face and looks like she's holding back a sneeze but in hindsight I realize she's trying not to burst out laughing. Then she goes, "So...(holds back another laugh)...who's the lucky guy?" And I'm pretty fucking plastered so I have no idea what she's talking about and just smile stupidly and go, "I don't know; I hope it's me," which, at the time, I thought was a pretty good save. She laughs and I feel even more confident about my answer. Then she hands me my change and I turn to go but she says, "Wait!" and I turn back around and she goes, "Is this your child in the cart?" And I'm like, "Oh shit, yeah."

I guess I'm not really clear on what I thought might come of this whole episode. Like, did I think I was going to impress her or something by proving to her I regularly shop at Wal-Mart? As if she'd think I'm really important and can't waste time going to multiple stores for these same items or something? I don't know; I guess I was lit.

Then one night I'm driving around and make a stop at Wal-Mart to get a few things I need before heading home. And it's one of those nights where I've downed more than too many and Roxette's "It Must Have Been Love" is playing on the stereo (it's the only CD I have in the car) and I start feeling that way I get, that way where I could swear the Windstar is a hearse, and that ever-present stench that's actually the upholstery must be the corpse I'm hauling around -- my corpse. So I stumble into the store, pick up a legal pad, a big plastic tarp, and a small box of shotgun shells and without even thinking about it meander towards that Sara Jean look-alike's register. And when she sees what I'm buying she gasps and says to me very earnestly, "Don't do it." And while I'm absolutely blitzed, I know exactly what she's talking about because I spend most of my waking moments contemplating spraying my brains all over the ceiling. So I go, "No, no, I was just gonna drink a little and shoot at the moon." And believe it or not, that's the truth that night. But she's not buying it and she actually reaches out and touches my hand and says again, "Please...don't do it."

And then you'll never believe what she says next. She starts to tell me how she feels about me, how every night she looks forward to work just in the hope that I'll come stumbling through the entrance and bring her some idiotic melange of items that inexplicably combine to form a perfect window into my life, that create a story with me as the protagonist. She tells me how she doesn't want that to end and that, in fact, she wants more of it, even for her to be part of the story. And I stare into this beautiful girl's eyes the whole time while she pours her heart out to me.

But I feel nothing. Her words wash over me without the slightest effect. When she finishes we stand together in silence, her straining in anticipation of my response and me straining to place my emotional vacuousness. Finally it dawns on me what the problem is: I don't really want her. I've never really wanted her. She is lovely, certainly, but she could not satisfy me in any way (nor I her). And I have to explain to her that there is another, one that possesses my soul and my mind and what remains of my heart. One who imprisons me and abuses me but whom I've come to identify with, sort of like some Stockholm Syndrome (hey, Sweden! like Roxette!) And she fights me on this and she cries and she tries to convince me that she can be whatever it is I want, whatever it is I need. But I am unyielding. And eventually I leave the store and find myself in the parking lot, in the Windstar, and it feels more like a hearse than ever.

I turn on the stereo and it plays Roxette's "Listen to Your Heart" and I start to cry. I cry for what is and what isn't, what must be and what can't be. And I start to curse. I curse the universe and god and mostly myself. And I start to lay on the horn. I honk it at everyone and everything and nothing. And I start flashing my lights into the emptiness of the Wal-Mart parking lot and the emptiness of the night, flashing them while I honk my horn and curse and cry.

And I do this for what must be 10 minutes until I finally collapse on the steering wheel. And I rest there, slumped over the wheel in the motionless night, slumped there until the silence is finally broken by a little voice from the back seat that says, "Can we go home now Daddy?"