Sweet Love

I mentioned before in an article about some of the fun to be had in high school with bullying. When I wasn’t acting like an ass, I was fawning over the girls in my school.

There was a blonde girl in my high school that was rather beautiful. I think her name was Trisha. At least, my fifteen-year-old self thought Trisha was beautiful. She might be ugly now. Actually, I sort of hope that she is, no one deserves a free ride their whole lives.

Anyways, I wanted to somehow tell Trisha that I liked her but I had zilch experience in how to deal with the opposite sex. My friends were idiots and buffoons who loved to celebrate my every sexual misstep so I had to be extra careful to not ask their advice.

Somehow, I got it into my head that girls love it when strangers walk up to them and shove flowers in their faces. So that’s what I did. Bear in mind that I had never even spoken to her before this moment. I doubt that she even knew I existed but I opted for the Hail Mary pass.

In hindsight, I don’t blame her for reacting the way that she did. I mean I DID have a mushroom cut in high school, after all. I can clearly remember walking up to her in the hallway, the flowers clenched in my sweaty fist. What was I doing? My mind screamed at me to stop but the cruel blade of puberty had me all twisted up inside.

The raw sex appeal of a mushroom cut

In front of a group of her friends, I handed the flowers to Trisha, and stammered some sort of inane comment. Something along the lines of, “you’re pretty.” I must have blinked because suddenly, she disappeared. I mean, she vaporized. One minute, she was there and the next, she was gone.

I was mystified. Where had she gone? A friend took a breather from laughing at me to say that he had seen her running down the hallway, stopping only to cram a bouquet of flowers in the trash.

“Yeah, that might be her,” I said.

As I stood there, dumbstruck, one of her friends said, “that’s adorable,” and my ears perked up. Someone gets me! I thought. Then I recognized that she had said it in with the same type of inflection in her voice that one usually uses when referring to a handicapped and lame dog try to play fetch.

I stumbled away, emotionally punch-drunk, never to recover. The sad thing is that I think Trisha left our school after the flower incident. I can’t remember ever seeing her again. It had to be a strange coincidence. It couldn’t have been me? Could it!?

God damn it!

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