Ew…ew ew ewewew

My mom recently sent me a box of books, included among which was a story of mine she’d found while going through an old bookcase. I read the first sentence and promptly threw it in my bag, refusing to read it out of sheer embarrassment.

I made myself read it today.

I’m going to make an educated guess that it was written around 1993 as it was printed using what appears to be early Canon Bubble Jet technology. Plus, I’m sure the subject is meant to be Dominic Miller, and I was going through a mild-to-moderate obsession with him around that time. Who in the hell is Dominic Miller? This is Dominic Miller.



He was Sting’s guitarist on “Ten Summoner’s Tales.” I’m so ashamed, for so many different reasons. I blush, I cringe, I have to share. Here a few brief excerpts.

… and remembered how I hated cappachino (sic) and dreaded the thought of having to pretend to drink what I considered over-rated coffee bean piss.
I really hated coffee back then.
His eyes were a soft brown that are impossible to describe but easy to recognize.
Huh? Guess I’ve always been a lazy writer.
He wore these amazingly tight fitting black jeans that only he could wear, and a loose silk shirt. When he played, the shirt would slip down and reveal his bare and perfectly formed chest…
Ew…ew ew ewewew
Nor do I believe he knew how good he looked in those pants or how the women in the room would become breathless when his shirt would slip down.
I’m so thoroughly embarrassed, I can’t even tell you. It’s like watching in horror as my 16 year-old self practices French kissing on her own hand.

I left it unfinished at 2 1/2 pages. Thank God.

(shudder),
gretch