Who was it that occupied my earliest sinful thoughts? Oh no it sure as heck wasn’t that little cow Justin Bieber or Jesse Mcartney <—(who I blame my bout of nightmares on because they seem to have started after his bloody creepy concert) It was a married man, even worse than that, a father– a suspender clad fiddler with a covered wagon. My greedy little eyes couldn’t quite get enough of Pa or as some of you may know him as Charles Ingalls. Little House on the Prairie was my Fifty Shades of Grey. And you know what? I didn’t even have to put a fake cover on the books or pretend I was watching Disney Channel when my mom walked in. No No No I could fuel my fantasy unhindered every weeknight. Disguised as an innocent family friendly show, it inspired lust in every viewer I assure you. Pa was what made that show work. It wasn’t stupid silly Laura. Anyone who watched that show was in it for Pa. I can’t believe more people aren’t obsessed with him to be honest. That’s all I have to say. 
Sentel Schreier 
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