Intro: Press Play
I thought Cliché was the most boring thing to be ever created—predictable too.
Why, oh, why did I have to say it aloud?
What was I moaning about?
Cliché, my friend, had gotten back at me to bite me in the gluteus maximus with three times the normal venom. That's why! (Why didn't I see that coming? It is Cliché after all, right?)
I mean, if Cliché wasn't after my head, why else was I sitting in a jock's car on a Saturday night having this type of intellectual conversation?
"So um…Ryan," I stuttered carefully, wrinkling my nose at the still existing brand new smell of his already year old BMW. How did he do it? I could never in thirty lifetimes manage that, but he can. "What? Isn't this the part where you show me that there's more to you than your egotistical jock self?"
He'd been silent for quite a while. As little as a talker I was, I couldn't help but be curious. He's been acting so strange around me lately.
"I guess," he replied, leaning back on his seat, regarding me with cool, sapphire eyes.
"What do you mean you 'guess'?" I managed carefully.
"Well, I haven't showed you my dick, have I?"