When I Think of Shorts, I Don’t Think of Shorts

I think of short skirts.

Oh come on, you had to have seen that coming!

I remember the first time, as a hormone-drenched teenage boy, my girlfriend wore a short skirt.

Now, as a fine American hot-blooded young man, I had an appreciation for girls in short skirts. However, short skirts should come with a warning label:

*WARNING*
IF YOU WEAR THIS
YOUR BOYFRIEND WILL
TURN INTO AN IDIOT

So there she was, prancing out of her house (this girl liked to prance), in a short skirt.

Jenny (named changed to protect the guilty): “What are you staring at?”

“Buuuh.”

“Hello? McFly?”

“Uh, sorry. That’s a great skirt.”

“Thank you!”

“Ok, you’re still staring,” she said.

At this point, I give myself a little shake. “Sorry, it’s just that, I can be sitting right by you and place my hand on your thigh and, you know, connect with actual flesh.”

“Shut up.”

“It’s like candy without the wrapper!”

“You know, I can be sitting right by you and my fist can connect with your face.”

Heh. Jenny was always the spunky one.

Anyway, where I was going with this? Oh ya: The short story contest I’m entering actually has a June deadline, not May as I mistakenly thought.

So I am still working on that sucker, which is good, because I blew past my deadline suffering through the MAN COLD.

It’s turning out to be darker than I was thinking. The short, not the cold. That’s mostly over. The cold that is.

Sadly, there are no short skirts in my short, but there is prancing.