This first relationship is lottery odds, planes crashing in Lost, sold out clothes in your size being returned so you can buy them; eBay’s the only alternative and that’s no real option.
You are your mother’s child: Clark Gable, B-56, black and white flickering screens and ice cream in odd flavours. Mint-choc-chip, butterscotch.
And you didn’t consider, just let him hit, aim, kiss you, should’ve asked which school, which group or class, could’ve avoided taut months filled with the sort of tension Brad Pitt’s not got, George Clooney couldn’t. But who avoids tension? Who wants to? I fucking live for it. And you do.
Wait until his chest’s shirtless. Homework won’t be an excuse. Gatsby won’t work. The film doesn’t hold up. Baz Luhrmann’s remaking it. You can retake the test when the teacher’s not spaghetti or Snickers or Nando’s or Colin Egglesfield or some other suck-up-able thing.