Dear Piers (age eight),
Listen. I am going to take this opportunity to warn you of a catastrophic event in my past and your near future. Tracing backwards over 10 years of romantic failure and, accordingly, sexual destitution, I believe I have located the exact point at which I made my fatal snafu.
Janice McCartney invited me to her birthday party, and thinking nothing of it I turned her down with all the brutal aloofness of a friendly phone call from my mother to hers. I was proud; I was anxious, and I fucked myself in the sex hole.
I’ve since invested a lot of time observing and documenting the social cues and habits of the fairer sex, and I think that there was a lot more to that invitation than she may have let on. What begins as an invitation to a pool party with her dad doing magic tricks will inevitably lead to an offer of ice cream cake, a proffering of a symbolic donut hole – even, I feel certain, an offer of mutually fulfilling romantic companionship that would have brightened both of our respective lives from then to now. Janice! I can see the life we might have had together, those 10 years of (I am sure of it) ceaseless lovemaking, and it makes me sad to know that it all is not mine.
I essentially sentenced myself to 10 years of romantic blacklisting by the entire phemale phylum; they can smell fear, I think, or at least the miasma of sweat and peanut butter I exude. And so at the present time, I have you to blame for my woeful understanding of the human female’s physical anatomy, which is based entirely in conjecture. So, for my sake and yours, stop being a little bitch and grab your ball sac.
With utmost sincerity,
Piers (age 18)