Writing my high school: No guts no glory

I could buy into the idea that such a thing as a manual to life exists but not if you were to tell me that it has a chapter on high school. I do not mean the high school of stampeding hormones and chasing skirts during music festivals. No, in that, despite being a late bloomer and a tone deaf one, I excelled. I had to. When you are the go to guy for emotive missives that lead to furtive groping at the back of the KICC’s plenary hall, someone finally cuts you in on the action. Benign action it turned out to be: a peck in the cheek for my affection-draped tomes.

High school tales.