<figure class="wp-block-image size-large"><figcaption class="wp-element-caption">Maybe It was just being on the planet.</figcaption></figure>



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Another party, another strike-out.

Every weekend, scanning the room, looking for love. Somebody throws a party.

Another night, empty handed.

Another night and half your English class is standing around, keeping time to the music, eyeing the high octane punch bowl, slipping out to the driveway for a cigarette. Waiting for the girls from Immaculate Heart to show up – they promised.

Midnight – no shows. Word got out; you’re gonna be there. They’re avoiding you.

They don’t know you – wouldn’t know you if they fell over you.

Still, you don’t believe they blew you off for a drive-in movie even though everybody was talking about Butch Cassidy.

You’re guys and you’re ugly and you’re way out of their league. It’s a proven fact.

You know – you look around the room – a sea of pimples and Dexter Boyntons.

You wouldn’t know them if you didn’t have to. Why are you stuck with nerds?

You heard about high school girls and college guys. Another year and you get to find out.

With your luck she’ll be fourteen with fake I.d., braces and a training bra.

Sixteen is your idea of dying and going straight to hell. It’ll never change.

You need new friends.

Every week there’s a promise you’ll score – every week – empty handed.

It’s not like the movies – even the disturbed ones find each other – but that’s not real life.

Real life is getting stuck doing the same thing over and over and apologizing.

Monday morning it’ll be the same – everybody talking about what a great party it was and who got hammered on the spiked punch and threw up everywhere.

Midnight and you decide nothing will happen so you get in your car, the one you invested an entire dollar’s worth of gas in order to get you to this party in. You take the complicated route home because you have a buzz on and the last thing you want is counting backwards and a breathalizer in front of a bunch of cops.

You get home and try to make a silent entrance, but your mom is up watching The Late Show and a Montgomery Clift movie – the one where Shelley Winters drowns.

She calls out to you and says one of your friends called. He said something about Immaculate Heart showing up and you knew what that meant.

You turn and trudge to your room – letting out an agitated groan as you collapse on your bed and hide under a pillow.

You’re doomed – at least you have KHJ and Johnny Williams on your bedside radio to keep you company all night – you’ll need it.

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