An Open Letter To My Penis

Hey partner,

I know it’s been a while since we talked.  Not much since 8th grade.  And back then it was pretty much just me begging you to go away as I made the far-too-short trek from my desk up to the blackboard.  But you never did go away, did you, you little rascal?  You turgid scamp?  Nope.  It was just me desperately trying to solve the Pythagorean Theorem while the whole time you saw fit to strain against the dangerously thin fabric of my poverty-grade uniform pants.  I spent so much time doubled over, the school nurse thought I had scoliosis.

Then you spent all of high school playing your hysterical little game of “up periscope.”  Every friggin’ day.  Thanks for that.  You do realize that made it even more difficult to find someone (else) who would touch you, don’t you?  You managed to take my already disastrous social awkwardness, and run that shit up to DefCon4, all based on the knowledge that if some poor girl did have the audacity to speak to me for more than 3 minutes, you’d wake up to see what was afoot.

But we got past that, eventually (I can’t stay mad at you), and haven’t spoken much since, save the occasional apology during our college years.  And once again, I am sorry about all that.

We’ve had a pretty good run over all, and though you don’t greet me every morning as enthusiastically as you used to, I’m looking forward to many more years of trouble-free operation.

To sum up:  High school?  All is forgiven.  College?  My bad.  The future?  Hang in there, pal!  (Except, don’t, you know, literally hang there.)