How should I describe myself? Should I tell you of how when I was thirteen I tried to kill myself by sticking a fork in my heart except I couldn’t go through with it because it was too painful? Would that suffice to indicate how manic-depressive I was or how stupidly emotional I was when I was younger? Or maybe I should tell you of that time I waited all night to give flowers to a girl I used to have a fleeting infatuation with? Or that one time nobody wanted to play with me, so I kicked a kid down the stairs and promised myself I’ll never need to belong ever again. I was six.

Nah. I was part of a trio of friends in high school. I called our group Two Men and a Pimple. And I wasn’t being funny. I mean, if it was a joke, I would’ve been able to go with someone to the prom who wasn’t forced to go with me as a favor to her friend who needed someone to go with her so she can go to her boyfriend’s prom.

I was always that ugly duckling who never grew into a swan. And someone just took pity on me because her fetish were sad ugly ducklings.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. This was years before I even met someone who had that fetish. This was the first year of college. I was eighteen and still a virgin. Well, technically. One of my best friends refused to go into college still a virgin, so he got the three of us escorts, and we all lost our virginity together. I know. Fucking anti-climactic. And I fucking hated it. But what can I do right? It’s spilled milk. Let’s get on with it.

I was always a fucking genius. Socially inept, but nevertheless a fucking genius. I could read before someone taught me, and I could understand English better than I could my own native tongue. So it wasn’t a surprise when I went to college and I was at the top of the examiner’s list. I was looking at this list when someone bumped me from behind.

“Sorry,” she said, before bumping into me again as one of her friend came rushing to her and pushed her into me.

“Oh look, there you are,” her friend said. “Top of the list again,” her friend added.

“Someone was better than me,” she said, pointing to my name.

“Oh I’m sure he just cheated. You’ll show him you’re better, come on!” her friend exclaimed, dragging her out of my view.

I smiled at that remark and thought it was funny. She was pretty though. Very pretty. But I was used to pining for pretty girls before and knew I never had a shot. It was cliche at that point. I shouldn’t even get attracted to girls anymore. But of course, my stupid fucking heart couldn’t control itself. It beat anytime a warm body came close to me. I would’ve bet myself it would have throbbed even if it was a zombie beside me. So yeah, that was me, first year of college.