Zest Lit Issue 2, October 2013 - Page 69

something that flowed out of my mouth without my arranging it to. Admittedly, it was not my best work.

An innocent yet perplexing interrogation soon followed as she simultaneously surveyed the playing field.

‘This wouldn’t be your bra under my bed, Timothy?’

‘Why does my room smell funny?’

‘What the hell are these in the sink: cherries soaked in Bailey’s Irish Cream?’ she asked, ‘Just what went on here, mister?’

I stood motionless and very far from the world of Glee.

Later in the day, the thunderstorms came and clearly my next lesson with Jen was to be a washout.

I gazed out the window, overwhelmed, dumbfounded, disappointed, and unsure which conundrum to address first. I needed a hug, or at least something big and furry with a tongue to pet. After my infamous all too sobering virgin escapade, mom shared with me that she was going to be less inclined to, in the future, leave her fastidious warren in my helpful hands.

I hate to admit it but I may not be the ladies’ man I think I am.


TimFoolery #1: Nostalgia, eh? Just what kind of nostalgia does a sixteen-year-old think he has anyway?

TimFoolery #2: Thankfully, miles from The Murphy Bed near the brown Basement Bar that screamed Bits and Bites and-unclassy-keggers-from-days-long-past that yes, would have been a mammothly humorless wonderwall, too numerous in comedic snafus that would have far from assisted with the ‘getting to the carnal bliss’ portion of the twilight.