So. After I was as convinced as much as it was possible to be convinced that I was definitely dumped forever, I kept myself occupied by writing stuff. First I wrote an epic poem about Donna dumping my ass. It had, like, cantos. Each canto began with a different Roman Numeral. And it rhymed every other line or so, and had some sort of internal rhythmic pattern. Not iambic pentameter. The would have been too plebeian. The epic poem about Donna dumping my ass is also that oldest surviving scrap from the spring of 1960 to which I referred and from which I'm not, you should thank your lucky stars, going to quote even a single tortured stanza. Then I wrote the senior play. That was my big claim to fame. The high school in Michigan didn't have the money to buy the rights to a real play, so I had to write one. It was a big success. I had to take a bunch of bows. People kept clapping. And all of a sudden all kinds of new chicks started coming up to me in the hallways, giving me compliments, batting their eyelashes. Cheerleaders. Actresses. Smart chicks with glasses. Then, right in the middle of all that, Mrs. Miller flunked my ass and I didn't graduate. I mean, here I am, my god damn girlfriend's getting rich and famous in New York City, and I finally get a little something going on with some new chicks and Mrs. Miller comes along and flunks my ass! Talk about completely fucking up a person's life forever! Oh, well. My life probably would have got fucked up forever somehow anyway.

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