When I was fourteen years old, I fell in love for the first time with a boy named Brett. He was fifteen, handsome, and tall, with silky black hair. He looked a bit like a muscular Steve Perry—frontman for the band, Journey. At the end of the summer—that summer of my first love—Brett and his family moved to Florida. I never saw him again.
Brett and I never kissed or even dated. Too many obstacles kept us from hooking up. First off, he was my boyfriend Scott's best friend. They had
Netflix: no breaks; no commercials; no pauses to go pee; no opportunities to defocus—just one episode after another—binge-watching on the cheap. With a trial subscription it's free for thirty days. Thirty free days to get you hooked. Once hooked, your endless drug supply will cost a mere $7.99 a month. That is less than 30 cents a day for all the TV shows and movies one can ingest. Is there a cheaper drug on the market? Doubtful.
I spent the last few days in a daze-induced Dexter
A lot of men can't dance—either because they are uncoordinated or self-conscious. Or both. Some do dance but not very well. They are stiff and/or unoriginal. But hey, more power to them—at least they are out there trying. Then there are professional dancers who are highly skilled athletes. But that gets old after a while as it looks so choreographed.
Then there are the naturals. These guys got the moves. They shake and groove effortlessly—like butterflies fluttering across the sky.