Everything was going great until she kicked me in the business end of my business end.

The long title to the short story of my even shorter initial test run of having a sense of humor in the presence of a girl on our first date. (Age 12)

(See also, age 13-24.)


(Age 25, however, is going to be my motherfucking year.)
(I am officially going to retire the idea of calling any part of my body at all my "business end" I will be a verbally described and physically presented “business-free” zone.)

(A non-enterprising body, indeed.)

(How boring I will be, at 25. having retired from the business of getting shall we say “physical.”)