He began with the day he was born. There wasn’t much to write, except for the fact that, well, he was born. That probably mattered for something. 8lbs, 4oz. To two beautifully unassuming parents.
He was assigned the requisite blue hat.
He fell into a sort of stream of consciousness writing that brought him to a place he had forgotten.
17. High-tops. Braces. Having recently accepted enrollment in an Ivy League engineering program, he had basically sold his soul to four plus years of linear algebra and physics.
None of that metaphysical philosophy bullshit.
Probably no sex, either.
Still a virgin, senior prom was his chance.
His date was pretty, enough. She talked a lot, and demanded they patrol the snack table with watchdog vigilance that bordered on the pathological.
He wasn’t convinced.
But, if listening to stories about her cat, and keeping her company while she assured herself pretzels were indeed a complex carb, meant that he might get to see her underwear, so be it.
Pretzel-girl was not convinced either, and our virginal hero failed to become a man that night.
And now, at the ripe old age he was, recalling his past to write what he thought might turn out to be a good memoir, he was pained by lost opportunity.
Whatever her name was.
He was a humiliatingly 22 the first time he got laid.