Falling quicker Quickens falling

For my Senior Yearbook I turned in the quote:

    Good things come from questioning why;

    You want to bother the eagles?

    Learn how to fly.

Pathetic, I know. I was also a hippie at this point- a hippie who wore NIN shirts and trenchcoats with safety pin decorations in pleasing stripes. Don't judge me. I am bigger than you.

Well, the humdinger is that a certain girl on the Yearbook committee had been the pincushion of my amorous intent at this despicable party on the West side a few weeks before the book went into final production. This girl was something like a manatee with black lipstick and a lot of money.

I was determined to lose my virginity, and was forced to run- actually run- from Crystal's bedroom when ol' Yearbook Committeebeast got her pants off and the inflatable-mattress roll of her belt area bounced down to obscure a vagina that looked like a ferret had a bloodfeud with it.

Forgive me. 

You always hope, through three bottles of Strawberry Boone's at age 16, that it will get better as clothes are removed. Having no sense of shame- being in fact, a ripe sociopath at this age- I howled in fear and ran from the creepy room, cock-a-bobbing into a mess of my schoolmates.

Anywho, ThunderGunt edited my quote for me, to the mildly homoerotic, fully pathetic:

     Fly.

The impetus behind my confession?

I had NEVER SEEN my yearbook before last night. A friend from high school sent me a scanned picture of me, rail-thin, acne-scarred, smug, beardless, my head and arm cocked together in that toontard fashion photographers suggest to punish their subjects for their own failed sexlives, and beneath it?

'Fly.'

I totally have to beat someone up to balance this out.