I LIKE MY MEN BLEEDING AND BRUISED!
Which says a lot about my real-life experiences with such men, or lack thereof. A godsend. I can live peacefully in delusion and not worry about the technicalities as I've done for the past 18 years and counting.
And I was going to continue doing that until I accidentally stumbled upon Exhibit A:
Some lifeless lump of spandex and blood in an alley on my way home. I wasn't a hundred percent certain I was looking at a man, but the tired groan that escaped him suggested it probably was. Also, there's this inimitable air of male-ness that men radiate, even when they're curled up on the ground.
My parents had never let me out of their sight for a period longer than a week, up until now. Even so, there was the underlying expectation that I'd be putting that brain of mine to use and making responsible decisions.
I put myself within a five-meter radius of the man, then a two-meter, then one, and then I was kneeling next to him. Close enough to hear his ragged breathing.
"You okay?" The instant the words came out of my mouth, I regretted them. He was not fine. Blood trickled from his jaw, though that was covered by more spandex and two white patches that were vaguely reminiscent of bug eyes. He didn't respond, as expected.
Proving my parents right that I was most definitely not mature enough to be living alone, I lifted him carefully, until most of his body weight rested across my back. It was a slow and painstaking process, carrying him back to my apartment — yes, I know it was right next to the alleyway. He was twice my size, okay?
It was sheer luck that it wasn't some serial killer that I found in the alleyway. A comination of sheer luck and the ability of two idiots to cancel out each others' idiocy.
Some would call it fate.
My girlfriend wrote this last year. She's been keeping journals since she learnt how to write. I knew it existed, of course, because she wasn't as sneaky as she thought. Her memory is insane. Photographic. If luck is on my side, I'll remember every part of her just as clearly as she remembered me.
I shouldn't be the only one who remembers her, though. So here you go: The Unabridged Journals of Scholastica Wilhelmer (Vol. XVIII-XIX)
— Peter Parker