This is how I troll

Note: The following is not considered a "typical" TFTG post. I just really wanted to get this out there. Regularly scheduled programming will resume when I feel like it.

Yesterday evening I was lurking Facebook, and I came across the profile of a high-schooler named Clay. In one of his semi-recent statuses, he wrote "Top 10 cutest girls," followed by a numbered list of girls he apparently thought were cute, with links to each of their Facebook profiles.
Now, I'm not one to put my admittedly large nose in other peoples' business, but since the status was public and I felt that these girls were being ridiculously disrespected, I decided to comment on the status and voice my opinion (read: "troll the shit out of him"). This is the shitstorm that followed (slightly abridged, for both length and continuity):

My Near-Miss

I've mentioned this before in a few posts in the past, but let's go through it again:
The summer in-between my freshman and sophomore years in high school, my parents uprooted me from my birth state, Texas, and moved me to the suburbs of Phoenix, Arizona.

Shortly after moving all of our possessions and selves to the Grand Canyon State, we were told that we would have to endure the plight of having to live in an apartment for a month while our house was being completed.

Since we'd moved during summer vacation, this left me with no convenient outlet for trying to find friends, leaving me to desperately prowl around the complex looking for people my age.

To make a long story short, the only person I ended up meeting during this adventure was a twentysomething pot dealer named Garth, who had an affinity for The Doors and a bong made out of a real human skull. Essentially, Garth was not exactly the type of friend I was looking to make at this point in time.

Aside #1: Though he does sound a lot like a few people I know. My, how times change.

Not long after this failed friend-finding mission, I began hanging out across the street from a high school a block away from the apartment we were staying in (not my future high school, by the way) in hopes to maybe hang out with a small group of teenagers that I'd noticed leaving the school one day in the early afternoon; looking like they were part of some sort of school club.

And part of some club they were. As I would later find out, this half-dozen strong collection of my peers turned out to be the school's Yu-Gi-Oh trading card game club, meeting up before the school year had began to plan out meetings and the like while sharing an enjoyable game of Yu-Gi-Oh between friends.

Aside #2: This blog post is brought to you by Yu-Gi-Oh: "The Funnest Trading Card Game Out There!"

But like I said, I was completely unaware of this fact as they walked up to me and started questioning me relentlessly. During this questioning, I couldn't help but stare at the sole female member of this microposse, named Jessi, who returned my advances by staring and smiling at me flirtatiously. So in order to get closer to her through her friends, I walked around the area with them over the next hour, pretending to get to know all of them, but only truly being interested in her the entire time.

Luckily, my "hard work" paid off, and everyone else with a penis left Jessi and I alone, talking to one another like it wasn't a huge deal (which it totally was, for me). Eventually our conversation winded down, and we exchanged numbers and made plans to do something the following day.

Thrilled, I returned home to tell my mother, who didn't share my excitement. Crushing my hopes of having Jessi over to our apartment the next day, she told me that she and my stepdad would be visiting our new house all day the next day, and that I was not to have any visitors while they were gone.

Naturally, I completely ignored this, and invited her over anyways, reasoning to myself that they'd be gone all day, and that if I had her over right after they left and had her leave a short time later, all would be well.

Surprisingly, all was well. They awoke the next morning, got dressed, and left without suspecting a thing. As planned, Jessi came over shortly after they'd left, and we walked around the complex for a few minutes, talking, before heading to the apartment to "hang out."

Aside #3: I used quotes to point out the euphemism I'm trying to convey here. I hope I've now drawn enough attention to it.

Before I continue, I'd like to take a second to break down Jessi's appearance during this meeting, from head-to-toe. I've intentionally not said anything about it until now. You'll see why.

Head:
-Short brown hair with multicolored streaks in it.
-Big eyes, with tons of eyeliner. Wore a small jewel on her upper cheek.
-Small, diamond lip stud.

Torso:
-Huge breasts barely contained by a band shirt she'd taken scissors to.
-Tons and tons of bracelets. So. Many. Bracelets.

Legs:
-Short jean miniskirt.
-Leopard-print tights.

Feet:
-Semi-tall socks. Yes, over her tights. Yes, in the summer.
-Converse she'd drawn all over, rebelliously.

What I'm getting at, is that besides for her ridiculously proportioned boobs (which totally wasn't why I liked her), she was just like 80% of the girls that were at that age when I was. Except sluttier (which was totally why I liked her).

Basically, she was not the type of girl you want your mom catching you with. But lo and behold, fifteen minutes after I'd taken her back to "my place," laid her out on my parents' bed (after closing and locking the door, of course), and taken her shirt off, my mother opened the front door and stepped into our living room.

Hearing this and panicking, I handed Jessi her shirt and ushered her into the adjoining bathroom, telling her to step into the shower/bath and close the curtain, just in case. Closing the door to the bathroom and opening the one that lead from the bedroom to the living room, I stepped across the threshold and faced my mother.

"Hey, what are you doing?" she asked suspiciously.

"Nothing. I was just going to the bathroom in there," I said, completely innocently.

"Oh really?" she asked, stepping past me and into the bedroom.

Aside #4: Growing up, my parents always assumed I was up to no good, or lying to them. This lead to me usually being up to no good and lying to them about it.

Scoping out the room, she lingered at the threshold for ten seconds before deciding not to go further; her mannerisms not unlike a velociraptor from Jurassic Park.

Aside #5: I'd almost have rather her been one, come to think of it. In fact, I can safely say that I'd rather be put in a cage match with one of these prehistoric killing machines than my own mother. Freud would love me.

"Well, we just went out to eat down the street before going to the house. I forgot my sunglasses, so we had to come back," she explained, after turning around and walking towards the front door.

"...oh, alright," I offered, following her to the door while consciously trying to make my rapid heartbeat stop showing through the front of my shirt.

With that, she left. After watching my parent's car pull out from the parking lot and waiting a few seconds to make sure she didn't come back for some illegitimate reason, I walked through the living room and bedroom, opening the door to the bathroom, finally pulling back the shower curtain to find Jessi standing there, still shirtless and shaking slightly.

"Why didn't you put your shirt back on?" I asked.

"I didn't want to make noise!" she exclaimed. "I didn't know if she would walk in or not!"

Completely ignoring her ridiculous reasoning and grinning, I said, "I thought for sure she was going to find you."

"Me too," she said, stepping out from the tub. "What happened?"

As she put her shirt back on, I explained the events of the past few minutes.

"Wow, I can't believe we came that close to getting caught. I should probably leave in case she comes back," she said, once I'd finished speaking.

"But...no! She won't be back for a few hours," I pleaded. "Please don't leave."

Aside #6: The first, but not the last time I'd say those last two sentences together.

"I don't feel comfortable here anymore. I'm gonna go," she said, sadly.

Less than five minutes after my mother had, Jessi departed from the apartment, promising to call me sometime in the next few days so we could meet up again. She never did.

But looking back, I'm very glad she didn't. Any girl that thinks, even for a split-second while under loads of stress, that putting on a t-shirt is loud enough to be heard by someone in a different room, through a closed door, is no girl for me. I don't care how slutty she is, or how big her boobs are.

The Airsoft Gun Story

When I was a teenager, I was convinced that someday I would become a professional artist, despite the fact that I only exhibited what could be called "talent" in one out of every ten pieces I worked on. I was convinced that this was a mere bump in the road to stardom. After all, I reasoned, Van Gogh's artwork was considered trash when he was alive, and it was only in death that he actually became famous. Maybe my artwork was the same.

Aside #1: And people say I had an ego. Pshaw.

Regardless, when I moved to a new school at the beginning of my Sophomore year, I enrolled in a mid-level drawing class to hone my "abilities" even further. Taught by a gruff, mustachioed ex-coach that had no artistic ability or training whatsoever, I could tell from the first day that the rest of the year that I spent in that class would be completely wasted, and that it wasn't going to help me in what I then saw as my future career.

So I spent most of my time slacking off rather than working on whatever assignment we'd been given, talking to the other five guys that were sitting at the same large, square table as me.

Amongst these fellows was a goateed teen named James. With his long, black, greasy hair and affinity for wearing suggestive t-shirts with massively baggy pants, he was usually the singular scapegoat our teacher chose to scold if we were in trouble as a table (which we often were). He must have been used to this sort of misdirected anger, as it usually rolled off his back without affecting him at all.

Aside #2: This is where I would normally imply that he was verbally abused at home on a regular basis, but to save time, I'm just going to say it: He was verbally abused at home on a regular basis.

The rest of us at the table appreciated this, and would often pontificate about the injustices served to him and how much we appreciated him taking the fall, in order to make his plight seem worthwhile. This semi-symbiotic relationship between James and the rest of us worked, much to our collective surprise.

Then, one day about midway through the school year, James was telling anyone that would listen that he was planning on going over to a friend's house after school to have an "airsoft gun war" (as he called it), and that he'd brought his (unloaded) pistol to school so he didn't have to stop at home to pick it up on the way to said "war." Since our school didn't have lockers, and required students to carry around their backpacks all day, this was a particularly risky decision. But he'd made it to our shared fifth period without any harm befalling him, meaning he only two more to go.

After James' admittance that he was packing pellet-firing heat on school grounds, the six of us discussed the finer points of guns, shooting things, and shooting things with guns. During this conversation, James had a weird gleam in his eye.

"Do you know what would be cool?" he asked, not pausing for responses. "If someone took a picture of me holding this with the classroom behind me."

Aside #3: This is not EXACTLY what he said, but rather the general idea behind what he said.

Realizing that no one had a camera, and never wanting to miss an opporotunity to impress my peers, I stupidly offered to take a picture with my then-slightly-uncommon camera phone, to be emailed to him afterwards.

So we set up the photo, and I took it just as the teacher had his back turned. As promised, I sent it to him, and after that class ended, forgot about the situation entirely.

That is, until the next week, when I was called into my school's principal's office. Upon entering the room, I was informed that I was to be suspended if he found out that I was lying about anything said in the following conversation. Sweating profusely, I agreed to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

Aside #4: I wasn't afraid of being suspended, exactly, I was afraid of what my parents would do to me if I was suspended.

Opening a folder, he showed me a full-page printout of the picture I'd taken of James holding his airsoft gun in our art class.

"Did you take this picture?" he asked, handing it to me.

Not needing to look down, I shamefully replied. "Yes. About a week ago."

"James said you did. He also said that the gun was Photoshopped into his hands, and that he really didn't bring anything like this to school. Now, I've looked closely at the pixels, and I can tell this isn't Photoshopped. Did he really bring a gun to school?" he asked, crossing his arms.

Aside #5: I'm not even exaggerating with the whole "I looked at the pixels" thing. I swear.

In my mind, protecting James wasn't worth getting suspended over, so I told him the truth like I'd promised.

"Yes, he did. But it was an airsoft gun, and it wasn't loaded!" I added.

"That doesn't matter," he said. "He still brought a weapon to school, and will be expelled because of it. Thank you for your honesty. You may go back to class now."

Feeling like shit for sending James up the river, I went back to class and waited to be shunned by my art-room classmates later that day for what I had done.

But I wasn't. Apparently James had named all of the people at that table as accomplices to his "crime," and all five of us had been grilled by the principal. Not a single one denied that James had indeed brought the gun, meaning I wasn't the only one who valued my own educational safety over that of another student's. This made me feel better, because in my head, it was better to have split the blame rather than take it all.

---

Two years passed, and James was finally allowed to come back to school. Forgiving me for what I had done, we became friends again and began to hang out regularly. We had a good relationship.

Or so I thought. I would learn a year later, after we'd drifted apart again outside of high school, that during this time, he'd kissed the girl I'd been dating. On two seperate occasions. Once while I was in the same goddamn room.

So if you learn one thing from this story, dear reader, let it be this: If you rat someone out, even as part of a group, and they claim that they've forgiven you, I promise they haven't. People hold grudges, and will take every chance they get to make a move on your girlfriend when your back is literally turned.

The Babysitting Story

Before I begin this story, I'd like to ask everyone reading to think of the single most depraved act they've ever committed. If you're cringing while thinking of it, you're on the right track. Now, think of how you would feel if that story was told to every single person you have met or ever will meet in your entire life. That, reader, is what I am putting myself through by telling you this tale. I hope you all enjoy it.

I've been in a lot of relationships in my life, and a lot of them have been, looking back, pretty fantastic. But as any serial dater like myself will tell you, the bad is always quick to follow the good, as was the case during my senior year in high school.

I had recently ended what was the most rewarding and longest-running relationship I'd been in at the time, and had began dating a girl that was two years younger than me, named Mia. Taller than me by about two inches, and by all accounts a "sensually curvy"-type of girl (the yin to my "concentration camp"-type body yang), we made quite the impression on the regular occupants of the schoolyard when we began dating. It seemed that by the second or third day of our relationship, everyone (including a teacher that we shared) knew about it. Neither of us cared, because we were too smitten with one another to waste a thought worrying about it.

Aside #1: Yeah, we were one of those couples.

Things went fantastically, for the first few months. Besides some initial rockiness when her ex from another state had found out about us, things were perfect. She was exactly the kind of girl I loved at the time: one that would hang onto my every word and provide genuinely impressive feedback to whatever teen-angst bullshit I'd decided to spout out. We were a match made in heaven, the two of us.

Then sex entered the equation. She seemed to have insatiable carnal desires when it came to me, once claiming that her body ached when it was not naked and near mine. With the both of us still being in school (and obviously living with our parents), it became near-impossible to satisfy her need on a regular basis. So we began to improvise. Everywhere we went became a potential "sex spot." Playgrounds, cars and outdoor walking paths were suddenly places to get laid, under my new mindset.

Eventually, we both agreed that our public displays of over-affection were becoming far too risky, and opted to sneak over to each others' houses in the dead of night on a regular basis. Unfortunately, it had to stop not much longer after it started. We were never caught, officially, but we had far too many close calls to warrant a continuation of this behavior.

Aside #2: Her dad had come up to her room no more than ten minutes after I'd left her house one night, claiming to have heard a noise. I would not be here today if he'd caught us doing what we were doing, especially when you consider the way we were doing it.

So we were stuck with no place to fuck. As with any sex-deprived relationship, the outside veneer of ours began to show cracks in its surface. We were fighting constantly, not being able to patch up our spats with sex. It was driving us both crazy.

Then, about a month into our mutual dry spell, Mia picked up a job babysitting for a couple that her parents had been friends with for the last few months. After a few weeks of this, and a lot of trying to convince me to do so, she had me over to their house one night after she'd put the trio of children she was watching to bed. We sat in their living room, cuddled, and watched a movie. Of course, things started to go beyond the innocent cuddle, only to be stopped by my suddenly-found list of morals.

We didn't have sex that night, though she begged me to. I had some issues with porking my girlfriend in a house owned by people I'd never met, especially when their impressionable children were sleeping less than fifteen feet away from us.

But the next week, all of my previously-held inhibitions were abandoned. It had now been two months since we last did it, and I was starting to go crazy. Mia had informed me that after I'd left the previous week, she'd snooped around the house and discovered that the master bedroom had two types of locks on it, one on the handle and a chain lock, to ensure that there was no possible way for us to be interrupted by anyone.

When I arrived that evening, we wasted no time. Leading me by the hand to the couples' bedroom, I began to notice a trend amongst all of their wall-hangings and paintings: each had a very, very heavy Christian theme. There were framed Bible verses and crosses lining the hallway to the room, which suddenly felt endless and Kubrickian. My moral compass was screaming obscenities at me in my head. But I ignored it. I was going to get laid, and I was not going to feel guilty about it. Period.

Swinging the door open, we entered the one room in the house that felt off-limits. Immediately, Mia slid the chain lock into place and pounced on me. I fell onto the bed, which felt far lumpier than it should have. Pushing her off of me, I stood up and looked at what I'd fallen on. Laying there where I had just been were a pile of children's clothes, freshly laundered and neatly folded.

Uncomfortable with this revelation, I asked Mia if we could avoid touching the bed, because it felt so wrong. Begrudgingly, she agreed, and led me over to an easy chair in the corner. Pulling my pants down to my ankles, she dropped to her knees and began to show me just how much she'd missed me.

Aside #3: If the quality of the blowjob I was receiving was any indication, it was a lot.

Soon, she'd pulled her own pants off and was on top of me. But the shape of the chair I was sitting in simply wasn't built for girl-on-top sex, so we moved to the floor.

Five minutes later, we heard a noise coming from outside. The knob on the door turned, and the person on the other side tried to open it. Impeded by the chain lock, the door only opened enough to allow a single, tiny arm to enter the room and wave around as the child on the other side called out Mia's name just like she had been doing with mine not seconds earlier.

Aside #4: If you ever find yourself wondering what the most fucked up thing I've ever written is, refer to the above paragraph.

I don't think I've ever gone from the missionary position to standing that fast. Matching my speed, Mia was re-dressed in a flash and unlocking the door to tend to the child while I hid silently in the bathroom attached to the room. We knew that if he saw me there, the chance of us being able to do this in the future were highly unlikely.

I don't know what she said to calm him down, but whatever it was, it had worked, and she was back in the room within a minute. Wanting to finish what we'd started, she began to unbutton my pants again. My moral compass wasn't just screaming at me this time, it had rounded up a few of its moral compass friends to yell at me in unison, warning me that I would come to regret what I was doing at this moment, and that no amount of awesome sex could possibly be worth the guilt I would carry after all was said and done. Once again, I ignored it, as the smaller head of my two began to take over. Thinking I'd already crossed over the threshold between "wrong" and "despicable," I stepped over to the bed and swept the neat pile of clothes onto the floor with a single arm, tiny socks and shirts flying everywhere.

Suddenly, we were both naked and having the type of tantric sex that even the most well-seasoned porn star would think was a bit much. We did it this way, we did it that way, we did it in ways that we'd never even imagined were possible before.

Aside #5: I'm actually ashamed on Mia's behalf for what she allowed me to do to her that night.

Once we were both finished, we laid out on the bed side-by-side, sweating profusely. Slowly but surely, we sat up and began getting dressed. Mere steps away from the bedroom door, Mia kissed me goodbye. Somehow, through forces unknown to me even to this day, this final embrace turned into her dropping to her knees for a second time that night. Working with the same type of sexual determination she had while we were in bed minutes previously, it didn't take long to get the job done.

Zipping my pants up, I walked towards the door to the bedroom. Inches away from the door handle, my hand stopped in mid-air as it began to rattle against both locks.

Terrified, I stowed away in the bathroom once more. Seeing that I'd done so, Mia opened the door to find the parents of the children that she was sitting on the other side. Knowing that there was no sense in hiding anymore, I admitted defeat and walked back into the bedroom.

I've never seen comprehension of a situation dawn on two peoples' faces simultaneously before, but that's exactly what happened the moment after I stepped into their view. Impressively and miraculously retaining their composure, both kindly yet curtly introduced themselves to me (neither offering to shake my hand, I should note), the husband mentioning that he "didn't know Mia was having a friend over tonight."

After this admittance, the tension in the air was palpable. Without moving a single part of her body besides her mouth, the wife offered to drive the both of us home, rightly assuming I lived nearby. Not wanting to make worse of a bad situation, I took her up on her offer. I made the wrong choice.

I've been in a lot of painfully awkward situations in my life, but sitting in the same car as the female half of the nice Christian couple whose bed I just had sex on, next to the girl I'd just had sex with definitely beats out anything else I've ever been through or could even imagine. I wouldn't wish the feeling I had in the pit of my stomach as they dropped me off at my house upon my worst enemy.

Needless to say, Mia never babysat for that couple again. In fact, they had called her parents and explained exactly what had happened, something that they rightfully never really forgave me for. If there was anything positive to be taken from the situation, its that Mia and I weren't together for much longer after that, and I would come to realize that I was much better off because of it.

I'm not the sort of person that looks back on events in their life with regret, so I can't say I'd take anything back that happened that night. But if I could go back and do it over again, I'd be sure tell the couple to change the carpet in their room and burn their bedsheets. I hope they did anyways.

The Adidas Story

When I was in the ninth grade, I'd finally realized that the clothes on my back and the shoes on my feet were an important tool to show people what social group I thought I belonged in. During

my appearance-experimentation phase, I became friends with a kid my age that rode my bus, named Colin.

Colin was, for a freshman, a total stud. I, on the other hand, was not. With a nose far too large for my face, and an attitude that would have better suited someone half my age, I didn't exactly have women falling at my feet. Sure, the odd girl found my behavior charming, but they were few and far between. So I started to change and mature, using Colin as a sort of guide to do so. I'm not sure if he ever noticed, but I definitely idolized him, in the way friends do.

One week, Colin came to school with a brand new pair of black and white Adidas on.

Aside #1:
These were the shoes:

After seeing them on his feet, I wanted a pair for myself. Though initially cautious about buying a teenager a pair of all-white shoes, my mother finally agreed to take me out to get some of my own after a few days of begging and talking them up. I couldn't have been happier.

So naturally, we went to the shoe store one afternoon after school and bought a pair. I wore them home, and continued wearing them well into the evening. Before I went to bed that night, I even struggled to form a fitting outfit for my new shoes' debut, something I had never done before in my life.

The next day, I wore the fuck out of my new shoes. Compliments came in left and right, some from people I didn't know. Colin, instead of being weirded out, embraced our twin footwear and was amongst the complimentary.

The story should have ended there, but it didn't. You see, Colin didn't only ride my bus, he was also in my art class. The week I got my new shoes happened to be the same week that we were studying chalk pastels in said class. Normally this wouldn't have been a big deal, but Colin and I began talking about how plain our shoes were, and how cool it would be if we got different-colored laces for them.

Aside #2: Anyone that went to school between 1985 and 2005 knows that all kids fucking loved weird or colorful shoelaces, for some reason.

Then, unfortunately, we realized we had boxes of the perfect shoelace-coloring devices sitting on the table in front of us. With 15 minutes left in class, I quickly untied and removed my laces and put them on the table in front of us. Deciding to go with a multicolored effect rather than one single color, we each took one and went to work.

A few minutes later, we finished. Streaked with every color in the 24-pastel box, we both agreed that they looked awesome.

Aside #3: They looked awful. Seriously. Like someone had eaten Froot Loops, a rainbow, and a gay person before throwing up on them.

So I laced my shoes back up, and was on my way. Art class was during the latter half of the day, so I didn't have much longer before I went home. But in those few hours between coloring my shoelaces and going home, something terrible was happening to the tongues of my shoes.

You see, when Colin and I were discussing our coloring project, we reasoned that if it looked bad, I'd just go home and wash the laces. No harm, no foul. But the 14 year-old me didn't realize that the treated leather that they used for the outer sole of my shoes was porous, meaning that every single rogue, powdery molecule of the chalk pastels that we'd used had seeped deep into said pores, dying the material permanently. I tried everything to remove it: toothbrushes, soap, putting them in the laundry, and plenty of other things. But nothing worked. They were ruined forever.

I don't think I need to describe how angry my parents were. Let's just say that if "being sent to bed without dinner" was actually still considered a punishment, I would have been sent to bed without dinner. As it stood, I was grounded for a indeterminate amount of time, and had to pay my parents back for the money they'd spent on my shoes by doing tons of chores around the house.

For some reason, I thought this was the biggest travesty that the world had ever seen. So that night, I hatched a plan. Swiping a few sheets of printer paper from my stepdad's office, I decided to start a petition, rallying against my parents' decision to ground me.

Aside #4: There was a lot of Fox News on in my house at the time. Don't ask.

For the next three days, I gathered signatures from everyone I saw at school. Of course, I told them about the situation that had led me where I was, and every single peer sided with me unquestionably. After around signature #100, I started to get cocky, and began asking teachers to sign it. In my mind, getting a single autograph from a grown adult was worth dozens, if not hundreds of teenage signatures. But none of them would agree to sign it.

Aside #5: In retrospect, this was probably wise on their part, since my parents would have likely called and complained to someone important (because that's the type of people they were).

But finally, on the third and final day of my quest, my elderly female English teacher decided that she'd take the risk, and lend her name for my cause. Even better, she told me that she was going to write my parents a note on the subject, something that both surprised and flattered me.

After I got the pages back, I saw that her letter had taken up the entire bottom half of the last page, the top having already been filled with my classmates' multicolored handwriting. Impressed with myself, I read over what she had written. Then I read it again. And again. It went something like this:

To the parents of Tyler Walters:

I'm writing you this letter to tell you that your son has been distracting other students with this petition in every class for the last three days. His other teachers and I had a meeting yesterday, and decided that if this doesn't stop, we will have no choice other than to punish him for interfering with class.

Thank you for your time,

(signature)

Aside #6: I'm paraphrasing, but as far as I can remember, this is almost exactly what it said.

I started panicking. They had held a meeting? About me? Seriously? I didn't know what to do. So I did what any stupid high schooler would do: I tore off the bottom half of the sheet containing my teacher's letter, and threw it away, not wanting to throw out the entire sheet and waste the other half-page of signatures I'd worked so hard to get.

Thinking I was off the hook, I took my finished petition home, with over 150 signatures spread across three-and-a-half pieces of paper. But the instant I crossed the threshold into my house, I could sense something was awry. There was a palpable tension in the air, one that had definitely not been there that morning before I'd left. Slowly walking into the kitchen, I found my mother sitting at the dinner table, reading a magazine. She looked up, and I could tell something was wrong.

Then the yelling started. The teacher that had written that note had called my house right after she'd written it, to ensure it was actually delivered. It wasn't, of course. But the teacher had gone ahead and told my mother exactly what it had said, and then some, claiming that I was a "nuisance," had "no respect for authority" (as evident by my petition, she explained), and was a "massive distraction to (myself) and others." It was absolutely devastating.

But that wasn't the worst part. After verbally annihilating me, my mother asked me for the three-and-a-half sheets of paper that had caused so much grief. After scanning it over, she asked me about some of the stranger names that were written down. I guess that I had been so caught up in collecting signatures, that I didn't notice that a decent portion were completely made-up by the assholes I apparently went to school with. Feeling like I'd lost some great battle, I sulked up to my room to begin what felt like a long-term prison sentence.

A few years later, when we sold them in a garage sale to people that had come by to pick through our junk, my mother was forced to sell them for a price considerably lower than the one marked on the tag, only because of the multicolored smudges. I couldn't help but smile a bit as the man that walked away with them told his wife that he was sure he could get them out with some "dish soap and elbow grease." He'd learn.

The "Saw IV" Story

In my final year of high school, I was forced to take a third-tier drawing class along with a group of students that were one year younger than me. It took place after my designated lunch period, but during another, meaning that it was the most prone to be skipped on a day-to-day basis. The teacher, a 30-something, once-great artist that decided that family was more important than becoming famous, saw my not-giving-a-shit attitude and simply let me slide for most of the year.

Until finals came around. The year I was to graduate, my school had begun enforcing a strict policy stating that all classes must have a written portion of the exam to go along with whatever else the teachers felt like they needed to throw at us. Meaning that, rather than give us all fudged grades on shitty "art" that barely stayed within the final exam project guidelines, art teachers were now forced to actually grade papers based on facts, not "interpretation."

Which, of course, put an end to my away-from-class excursions, and forced me to interact with the motley crew of people that were out to discover and hone their artistic abilities.

Aside #1: I'm not going to sit here and make comparisons to The Breakfast Club in my attempts at describing how diverse the individuals were in this class. Not because that's a cliche, but because you couldn't understand just how different everyone really was. Classes this diverse would have made John Hughes rethink the classroom dynamic in a film setting, trust me.

At this point in time, I was fresh from being rallied back and forth between two girls for several months, and frankly, was not looking for any sort of relationship with anyone. And as any person that has ever been in this situation could have told you, that was exactly when two girls, two best friends that were in this very art class decided they wanted to jump my bones.

On side #1, I had Amanda. She was:

-An interesting person with stories I could relate to.

-Taller than me.

-Beautiful and curvy.

-A good artist, actually. Or rather, a decent artist.

On side #2, I had Tiffany. She was:

-Shorter than me, with a great figure.

-Loud. So loud.

Day after day, these two would compete for my attention, and I would gladly give it to them. At this point, I was so caught up in feeling sorry for myself over my recent heartbreak(s) that I would have gladly accepted anything of the sort without much fuss, never mind the fact that I considered them both attractive. They both appeared to be enjoying the game, neither ever seeming uncomfortable with the situation they had put themselves in.

Naturally, after a few weeks of this, they both gave me their phone numbers within the same three-day period. Tiffany had broken up with her boyfriend of nine months a few days previous (the fact that she had a boyfriend being news to me), and wanted to see me sometime soon outside of class.

Definitely leaning towards pursuing Amanda at this point, I made plans to see Tiffany on a boring Saturday afternoon, at her house, where her parents would likely be keeping a watchful eye over the two of us teens.

So around 1 'o clock on said Saturday, I showed up at her house. She opened the door, pulled me inside, and started furiously kissing me.

Surprised, but definitely not thinking ahead, I started kissing her back. We migrated into a room containing a TV set and a couch, the latter of which Tiffany had thought to cover awkwardly with several blankets. After sitting me down on the couch, she walked over to the TV and turned it on, for what I assumed would be background noise.

"Do you mind if I put this in, while we...?" her voice trailed off, as she held up the case for the movie Saw IV.

"Um, sure?" I answered, not sure of what to make of the scene.

She put in the movie, started it, dimmed the lights and walked back over to me on the couch. Sitting on my lap, she started kissing me again as the opening of the movie began.

Aside #2: For those of you that have never seen a Saw film before, every film begins with one of the series' infamous "traps" being sprung on a person or a few people.

Clothes started coming off, and things started getting...more passionate (for lack of a better word). Soon enough, we were both completely naked and kissing on her couch. What happened next should have been easy, except for one problem: having a gory film play in the background is not my idea of "setting the mood." Simply put, the film's content was distracting me to the point of flaccidity, despite the fact that I had a perfectly attractive, naked young woman sitting on the same piece of furniture as me, practically begging me to have sex with her.

So I did what any man would do when put into this position: I made the best of an awful fucking situation. First, I positioned Tiffany between the TV screen and myself, ensuring that it was out of view. Second, I forced blood to rush to my penis with pure willpower alone, in a feeble attempt to retain some piece of my manhood throughout this event.

Not long later, after what felt like an erectile marathon, I finally felt like I could say I had finished without rousing suspicion.

Aside #3: We fake orgasms too, ladies. But only when we have to.

"I'm going to go take a shower. You're welcome to join me," she told me, after we'd caught our breath.

"Um, I need to go home pretty soon, so I think I'll just go," I replied, still trying to act normally.

So I got up, got dressed, and left.

But the story doesn't end there. After Amanda had found out about Tiffany and I's tryst, she was, of course, upset. But not with me. Apparently, Tiffany had lied to the both of us about the status of her relationship, meaning that I was nothing but a trophy, and Amanda was nothing more than squashed competition.

Of course, Amanda wasn't too happy about this, and told Tiffany's boyfriend about what had happened (kindly omitting my name), and they broke up. Less than two weeks later, I received a call from Tiffany, crying, claiming that I had impregnated her. I only said four words before hanging up and never speaking to her again:

"I didn't come, bitch."

My First Date

When I was in the ninth grade, I was a douchebag. I was constantly yearning for attention from my upperclassmen, while also feebly attempting to "get laid;" a combination of goals that no female with a brain stem found inherently attractive. I hadn't experienced anything sexual outside of my failed blowjob from Ashley the previous summer, and was beginning to get anxious. Not from sexual repression, but from the sort of oozing bog of loneliness that those like myself find themselves sinking in when young and filled with angst.

Thankfully, this slump didn't last long, and by that October I'd already set my sights on the next girl I wanted to pursue. Her name was Megan, and she was a junior at my high school. She was sort of tomboyish; the type of girl that would always wear her hair in a ponytail, who would come to school in a different band t-shirt every day. She wore all-green Chuck Taylor high-tops, and she was the most attractive girl I'd ever seen. Needless to say, I was smitten.

I'd managed to enter her social circle through a few mutual friends we had, and began talking to her at school on a regular basis. She was incredibly flirty, a trait I hadn't yet learned to protect myself against at such a young age. We eventually made plans to hang out beyond the confines of the school walls, with her offering to drive me to the mall to "hang out." Not well-versed on teenage relationship etiquette, I assumed that this was to be the first of many actual dates. I was thrilled, and told my parents all about it over dinner that night. My mother was excited and began fussing over my hair, offering to take me to get it cut after school the next day, hours before Megan picked me up. I took her up on her offer. We went, and I ended up getting what I thought was a cool hair cut. I walked out of the barber shop feeling confident with my new look, excited to show it off.

Aside #1: I should mention right now that at this age, I had no friends that drove, and didn't (and still don't) drive myself. This was a sort of monumental moment for me, being the first time I was actually allowed to be driven in a car piloted by a teenager. Sadly, this detail is probably what set this mall "date" apart from my previous, parent-driven mall "non-dates" in my young mind.

I spent the next few hours nervously picking out clothes that I felt suited the evening, trying on several dress shirts before settling on a "cool and collected"-looking black turtleneck my mom had bought for me, paired with my favorite jeans and a brown leather jacket that I'd received three Christmases earlier (that was three years too small). In my mind, I looked awesome. I thought of myself as a sort of James Dean-ish character, and was positive that she'd immediately want to make out with me upon seeing my outfit.

Of course, she didn't. But that didn't bother me, because I'd have the whole night to win her over with my unmatched wit and charm. Except I didn't have any wit and charm. Nervous and unwilling to fail, my first mistake was made shortly after getting into her car. After exchanging greetings, her eyes lit up.

"Do you like ska?!" she asked, grinning.

"Er. Well...yeah, I like ska," I replied, nodding my head.

Aside #2: This is the only time I've ever said the term "I like ska" in my entire life.

If she were more intuitive, she would have realized that I'd very clearly never heard ska music before, and was completely lying to her. But, her excitement clouded her perceptions, and she excitedly pushed a tape into the stereo. The sound of horns started blaring through the speakers as I awkwardly bobbed my head along at a pace that was nothing like the one in the song, pretending to enjoy myself. Megan, however, was drumming her steering wheel furiously, singing along with a sort of crazed fervor that only ska fans are capable of.

I was terrified. Having never driven with a teenager, I was completely unaware that most of them act like fucking maniacs when behind the wheel. After a few minutes of hiding my fear and feigning interest in the music, I began to feel itchy. You see, I hadn't taken a shower since I'd gotten my hair cut, for fear that I wouldn't be able to make my hair look as cool as the barber had.

Aside #3: You've all done it before, shut up.

Of course, this meant that I had residual hair clippings sprinkled over the back of my neck and shoulders, irritated by my unfortunate clothing choice. Trying not to look too obvious about it, I began rubbing my shoulders against my seat, soothing my uncomfortability. It started out with a sort of gentle rub, but over the course of the next few minutes it evolved into a sort of free-form homage to the way bears shamelessly scratch their backs along tree trunks. Nothing subtle about it.

I'm not sure how long she was looking at me before I noticed, but I think any amount of time is plenty in this situation. Luckily, we'd arrived at the mall, and the loud-ska-fused-with-weird-tension-in-the-air bubble that had been growing in the car was popped. We parked, and started walking through the mall. Stiff-legged, nervous and still itchy, I followed Megan as she buzzed about from store-to-store happily, not noticing my discomfort. But then, somehow, we were holding hands. I'm not sure when it happened, or who made the first move, but I remember being in the kitchen wares section of a department store when its significance to the future of our relationship dawned on me. This adorable girl that I liked had looked past my weird display in her car, and still liked me. It was monumental. In my pubescent mind, this was a symbol of great things to come.

Eventually we began heading towards the exit to the mall, still hand-in-hand. I'd forgotten all about my itching issues, my mind dreamily focused on thoughts of Megan and I's future together. In the parking lot, her cell phone started ringing. Her hand left mine when she picked it up, but I didn't even care. We'd have all the time in the world to hold hands.

Aside #4: If you think I'm some sort of obsessive weirdo at this point, remember that I was young and filled with hormones. I don't know what the fuck I was thinking half the time.

After she finished her call, she told me that we were going to turn around and visit one of her friends that worked at the Cheesecake Factory in the mall. He was on his smoke break, she explained, so it wouldn't be long. I cooly remarked that it wasn't a big deal, and we started walking the other way. Oddly, her pace had picked up dramatically, and she was now power-walking towards the restaurant. I thought it was really charming that she wanted to see her friend so bad, and didn't try to keep up.

I saw her friend before she got to him, and something in the back of my mind threw up a red flag. He was over six feet tall, goateed and wearing a cook's apron. If that hadn't set off an alarm in my mind, the way they hugged would have.

Imagine, if you will, the most obnoxious hug that you've ever seen, where one party picks the other up and twirls them around while making unintelligible "happy" noises. It was like that, but with an added side of soul-crushing heartbreak as her lips met his in mid-hug.

Of course. A boyfriend. Her hand-holding must have been a mark of friendship, not of any sort of attraction. My hours of preparation were wasted. I mumbled a half-assed greeting to my new nemesis, jamming my hands in my jacket pockets angrily. They decided that he was going to walk with us to her car while he was finishing his break, so we turned around for a second time. As a way to show my frustration with the current predicament I found myself in, I made sure to walk on the other side of the parking lot aisle, shoulders hunched. They didn't seem to notice. His hand was occupying the same place in her hand that mine was just minutes earlier. Seeing this made me try to brood harder, so that the end result was me looking like a pissed-off hunchback with bad taste in leather jackets.

We arrived at her car, which she didn't unlock until after kissing him for a solid ten seconds on her side. Quickly, I sat inside and crossed my arms, pretending I was cold (not seething with anger). She continued to kiss him, the both of them plainly visible through the driver's side windshield. His tall figure was craned over her small one, arms around each other's waist/shoulders (respectively). The minutes dragged on forever.

Aside #5: I'm really not sure how long I was sitting there staring at them, but I'll hope you'll forgive me for using the cliche "it felt like forever in just a few minutes" line.

Finally, their embrace broke and he departed. She opened the door to the car and sat inside.

"Sorry, I didn't know he was working tonight," she explained, starting the car.

"You didn't know your boyfriend was working tonight?" I asked, genuinely confused.

"Oh, he's not my boyfriend. He's just...my friend," she replied.

My Megan, a whorish cocktease. It all made sense (but for real this time). I shifted my body weight in a way that showed that I clearly didn't approve of the situation, and she understood the message I was conveying.We didn't talk the entire drive back to my house. Ska music came through her speakers, but at a much more acceptable volume than before. She wasn't drumming along, or singing loudly. Her hands gripped the small grey steering wheel until her knuckles went white. There was a sort of angry and confused tension in the air, until I arrived home. Immediately after she pulled up to the curb, I flung the door open and unclicked my seatbelt. I said a rushed goodbye, slammed the door, and started to walk slowly up to my front door, fishing my key out of my pocket. I was nearly there, when I heard Megan blare her ska music before peeling out and driving away. I had a lump in my throat as I entered my house, finding my parents waiting for me in the living room. After a few questions answered with no enthusiasm whatsoever, they got the hint and let me go to my room to feel sorry for myself.

I didn't see her much after that, and aside from dating one of my friends for a few weeks, never was really forced to interact with her.

I learned a lot of valuable life lessons from my first (and only) date with Megan. But what really breaks my heart is that she didn't even notice my cool hair cut.

The Blow Job Story

In the summer between my 8th grade and 9th grade years, I began talking to a girl over Myspace that I had "met" through mutual friends, named Ashley. We had met up a few times, and started "dating," which entailed nothing beyond being dropped off at the mall together, or going to each others' house. She was a year older than me (entering the 10th grade at a different school; a big deal at the time), but no more experienced than I in the treacherous world of tween sexual experimentation. That is to say, kissing was a big deal, and going even further was not worth the hours-long erection you were forced to wear like a horrible badge of honor. You know, the one that lasts way longer than it should, forcing you to take a walk of shame to her parents' Jeep Liberty to drive you home with your hands jammed into your pockets like they don't know exactly what you're trying to hide?

Aside #1: I assume all semi-sexually active males and females have been on the respective sides of this at one point or another, and know exactly what I'm talking about, or can at least imagine the situation thanks to 80's teen comedies.

Anyways, to make a long story short, after two or three months, my still-growing libido was sick of only getting to "second base" with Ashley, and wanted to take things further. Orally further. I wanted her to give me a blowjob. I'd never gotten one before (much less had sex), and was, of course...curious.

At first, she was reluctant to do this, as she'd never gone past even "first base" with anyone before, much less "third." But after some softcore-style heavy petting on her bed, with clearly broken and laughably naive promises to "always be together" exchanged in-between sloppy kisses, I was able to begin to "shoulder pat" her down to my privates.

Aside #2: I also assume that all people that have been involved on either side of male oral sex knows what I'm talking about here, the "shoulder pat" being the general term for the sort of light push guys will give their ladies while kissing them, to say, "I'd like it if you went down there. I strongly suggest you do this." It's a dick move, but we've got to let you know what we want somehow, right?

After unzipping my pants and pulling them down to my ankles (I still had my shoes on, naturally), she began to unbutton the wiener-hole in the front of my boxers.

Aside #3: I don't know what else to call it, so sorry for being twelve. I've called it that my entire life.

Her hands were shaking as she unfastened the buttons, which meant that it took a ridiculously long time to open the gates (as it was). Once she finally did it, my once rock-hard erection had sort of shrunken into what looked like a depressed, peach-colored eel, apparently no longer amused by the female face in its vicinity.

Now, at this point in the story, I have to mention that once she saw what she had to work with, she didn't throw her hands in the air and give up, or even make a funny face. Oh no. She sure as shit tried her hardest to get me going again, and I give her massive amounts of credit for that.

But there was one problem. As I mentioned before, Ashley nor I had ever been on the respective giving or receiving ends of a blowjob before, and I think she had a minor misconception as to what it involved. Rather than "suck" my dick, she instead chose to literally "blow" it; like you would a balloon. Before I had a chance to react to the sharp pain that the gust of air being blown into my penis caused, I looked down to see her cheeks blown up as big as Dizzy Gillespie's.

Unfortunately, my knee-jerk reaction was to grab the hair atop her head, pull it off of my groin (which made a very interesting popping noise), while yelling "FUCKING OW!"

Needless to say, this was not a high point in our relationship. After "cleaning up," her parents decided that they'd had enough with our preteen shenanigans, and that it was time for them to drive me home. Awkward didn't even begin to describe the car ride. We were sitting in the back of her parents' Honda Civic, holding hands loosely over the middle seat, everything feeling slightly different now that we had crossed this threshold into the void. After dropping me off, she sent me a text message explaining that she was nervous, and sorry that she'd hurt me. We made vague plans to see each other in the coming few days, but our hearts must not have been in it anymore. I never saw or talked to her again. But I sure hope she learned how to suck dick.