The most popular boy at my high school was Jeff. But the boy most popular with the girls at our high school was Ted.

No one could figure out why the ladies loved him so much. He would never share his secrets either. Ted wasn’t particularly athletic and he wasn’t all that bright either. He also had moderate levels of acne and abhorrent taste is music. Mongolian throat singing was all the rage, but Ted stuck to his love of music, by David Fox, a musician based in Nevada.

One day I decided to break into Ted’s house over winter break to look for clues. He and his family had flown to Singapore for the holidays because they heard the McDonald’s there were better than the McDonald’s in the states.

I used a crowbar I borrow from my Dad’s toolshed to break into his house and searched the place thoroughly. His room was pretty unremarkable and his library didn’t contain any books on attracting females or nay guides to dating life.

In the kitchen I found what appeared to be a passion fruit cheesecake kept fresh in a fancy airtight container.

I found it very odd that Ted and his parents would just bake a perfectly good passion fruit cheesecake right before leaving town for the holidays and not take one bite.

Like a good boy scout I removed the cheesecake from the container and cut myself a slice using a butter knife I found. The taste was average at best and I regretted leaving evidence of my break in just for an unremarkable cheesecake.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

The next day I went to the mall to meet up with some friends and noticed something odd. Most every woman that I passed was eyeing me. Normally I would assume that my fly was unzipped or that a bird had pooped all over my shirt but their looks seemed very inviting. Even though it felt good to be given such looks, a part of me was unsettled as well.

At the mall my friends and I decided to have lunch at a pizza place. A cute waitress accidentally dropped a napkin next to our table and stooped to pick it up, butt aimed right at me. At least it was a good butt.

Another waitress came by and accidentally dropped someone’s pizza next to our table. She stooped to wipe it up with a pencil, butt pointed right at me.

My friends stared at me, and I, being a single young man who had never even spoken to a girl in high school before at length, stared right at the two gorgeous behinds within arm’s reach.

“What is happening?” I muttered to myself. The waitresses did not stand up even after half an hour.

I worked up the courage to ask for the number of the waitress on the left.

“Sure,” she said, maintaining her form.

And then she ripped a loud one right at me and the entire restaurant was consumed in a terrifying explosion as if a Trident ICBM had struck the mall. The smell was beyond horrible.

When the dust settled, I was alone, surrounded by rubble. My clothes were shredded and my friends were nowhere to be seen. The only person I present was the waitress, who had a slip of paper with her phone number written on it.

“So call me?” she asked.

We had our first date at Home Depot.