I was a nerd. At first, I didn’t think so, but when I tried to talk to a cute girl and help her with her homework, she said, “You’re a nerd.” It didn’t make me feel good and I felt even worse after I tried to ask her out on the phone and she ghosted me. So, what did I do? I went to the library for the answer. There were books that talked about holding the frame and being confident, but I quickly got the sense that only nerds looked at these books and it didn’t help their success much.
I was a senior, and the prospect of losing my virginity looked like one of those mathematical proofs that will never be solved. The problem was, total morons were getting laid and I wasn’t. They had a kinda genius that I was born without, perhaps I was missing the part of the brain that makes guys good with women. Anyway, all I knew was that I was walking home from school alone, again, and time was running out. I had said so many quiet prayers, immoral prayers, but the gods of pleasure or the rulers of the underworld didn’t seem to care about my problem.
I was passing the Victorian houses and one of them was having an estate sale.
“Yeah, the old lady croaked.”
“Is this her, my… she was a looker. They don’t make ’em that way anymore.”
“Did I tell you she was accused of being a witch in 1915?”
“How old was she?”
“Who can say—at least 115 years old, but judging by these photographs and collectibles, she might’ve been even older. I thought of giving the genus book of world records a call, but I have strict order from her lawyer to sell this stuff and burn a few items in the house.”
“Burn, you said?”
“Yeah, strange request, I know, but I was told they are potentially dangerous.”