It's been quite a little while, but I remember some things about being 15.

I was a sophomore in high school and got my first real job working at this roast beef place called Anderson's. A guy named Dave Casterline and I would go into the cooler and do nitrous hits out of the whipped cream canisters. And I listened to Ozzy back then. No Rest for the Wicked had just come out. I can't remember any of the songs off that record now, except a little bit of "Breaking All the Rules" -- the part where he goes, "a come on, a come on" during the fade-out.

What I remember best about being 15 is the horniness. I was horny all the time. It was absolutely relentless. Horny in the morning, horny in homeroom. Horny periods one through eight (until my school went to a different system, at which point I was horny periods one through twelve.) Horny after school. Horny for Elaine when I watched those first episodes of Seinfeld. Horny when I fell asleep and horny when I woke up in the morning. I was condemned to a Groundhog's Day of crushing horniness. There was no release in sight, until I met Stacy Duschnik.

At 15, I was ready to burst. I was a ticking timebomb of lust.

It's because I remember that feeling so well that I know that there's no bigger proponent of the sanctity of Gypsy cultural tradition than this guy is right now.

Analogcabin @ 8:59 AM
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