Listen, Coop. Last night was really great. You were incredibly romantic and heroic, no doubt about it. And that’s great. But I’ve thought about it, and my thing is this. Andy’s really hot. And don’t get me wrong, you’re cute too, but Andy is like, cut. From marble. He’s gorgeous. He’s like this beautiful face and this incredible body, and I genuinely don’t care that he’s kinda lame. I don’t even care that he cheats on me. And I like you more than I like Andy, Coop, but I’m 16. And maybe it’ll be a different story, like when I’m ready to get married, but right now, I am entirely about sex. I just wanna Andy. I wanna take him and grab him and just fuck his brains out, ya know? So that’s where my priorities are right now. Sex. Specifically with Andy and not with you. But you’re really nice, I mean everybody thinks so. And, I’m sorry if this isn’t the direction you saw things going between us. I still totally wanna be friends. You better write me a letter, okay?
Alright, so I didn’t quite peak like Katie in this shining beacon of teenage triumph. When I was sixteen, I had no boobs nor balls nor boys falling over me like this:
I was, however, a glorified extra in the greatest movie of all time: WET HOT AMERICAN SUMMER.
You may recall “Tall Debbie,” not to be confused with “Debbie Debbie.” But probably not. That was me.
Meet me at the picnic table in ten seconds and I’ll explain everything.