My palms were sweaty and my heart was thumping like a drum in a marching band playing bohemian rhapsody at five times the speed. I was awe struck by her beauty, flabbergasted even. What was I to do? She was the prettiest girl I had ever seen and she was standing right next to me. Me! Of all people and I couldn’t figure out why. I soon snapped out of my bemused state and realized I was in a port-o-potty line and she was my predecessor. Despite our unsavory setting I had to talk to her because she wasn’t just regular pretty she was modeling-for-cover girl pretty. I on the other hand have a somewhat charming disposition in a dorky, off-beat sense but I’m not as some would say “classically handsome”. That being said, I worked up the courage to talk to her, the following unpleasant conversation occurred. I confidently blurted out my opening line, “Come here often?” which mind you is not the best ice-breaker in a port-o-potty line. Her reply just a blank-ominous stare that made me feel like I was about to be hit by a bus. Holding this stare she mumbled out a response that was impossible to decipher, it sounded like a foreign language that only she spoke. In the middle of this excerpt that may or may not have been her communication with her mother-ship, a slow octogenarian man walked out of a port-o-potty as the girl lunged in to the now vacant craper as if there was some grand prize waiting for her inside. And so I stood there realizing that I no longer had the desire to pee; all I could wonder was if I was really that bad at talking to girls or if she just really just needed to take a wiz.