Burning red cheeks are what I see in the mirror. Burning red cheeks and a blue lump on my forehead with blood running from it. It was stupid, and I knew it was stupid, but I was drunk. Or that is my excuse, and I will cling to it as to a rubber dinghy in a stormy sea if they ask me.
And why did I really do it? Because Christopher once said that he thought pole dancing was sexy. Is it possible to become more pathetic than that?
I thought that I hit rock bottom when I began showing up to hockey practice because of him and tried to stop glancing at him in the shower. It did not even give us anything to talk about. Hockey. And now this.
I could bury myself, no, encase myself in cement far beneath the arctic ice cap. Then the scientists could dig me up in a thousand years and laugh at the shell I had left. That would not have touched me. But this?
I thump my head against the mirror.
I am an A-student and this seemed like a good enough idea to go ahead with it?
I thump my head against the glass again.
Even though I knew that when Christopher said pole dancing was sexy, he thought of big bosomed strippers. He certainly did not think of a freckled, pimpled, gangly, wimpy boy with unshaved peach fuzz on his chin and not even enough strength to keep himself on the pole.