ability to drink anyone in the room under
the table.
The testosterone-fueled chip on my
shoulder came from a high school career
spent futilely awaiting a timely puberty
while standing a good foot taller than
everyone on earth, all the boys at my
high school included. None of them ever
asked me out, but I could make them
laugh and kick their asses at basketball,
so rather than fail at seducing them, I
simply became one of them.
Paula’s issues were more homicidal
in nature. She was the kind of angry
found in highly intelligent women who
develop the body of a Playboy bunny by
the age of thirteen and are forced to