You've got those moves and those eyes, I've got these shakes and bad breath.

A girl I have had sex with is dead.

As far as I know, she is the first to hold this dubious distiction. It was a a very long time ago, and I haven't spoken to her in close to a decade. I found out she was dead through the grapevine, as news of this kind will travel. She was nothing special, one of a tragic many from those days, a victim of my youthful indescretions and phobia of commitment.

The last time we spoke she was fucking my buddy Mikey (a marine who fucked just about every girl in Hallet Hall '96), vainly trying to make me jealous. I met her at a Face to Face show, and our combined love for that band is what led her to my bed, much more than my drunken charms, I think. We both had our lives changed by the same song. Girls in that scene were few and far between in those days, after all. Especially hot ones. She had the most amazing smile, and while I pretended to not not give a fuck about anythnig, I think she really didn't.

She used to write me poems, read them to me after we fucked, and then burn them. My psycho chic radar was on its max setting in those days, and if it wasn't for my constant 18 year old boy erection, I probably would have run sooner than I did. But she was fun, if not a little crazy. And she didn't smoke, I have always liked that in a girl.

She was interested in my writing, and I let her read it. She wrote in the margin of one of my stories (which I still have, oddly enough), "Good writitng is taking truth and recreating it, delicately painting it with a feather on a canvas of tissue paper. You write like the pen is a hammer and truth is a puppy's head."

In my youthful inexperience I may have missed out on someone who really understood me.

Now she is dead. She was in a car "accident." A drunk driver T-boned her at an intersection. She was coming home from the bars, also drunk. Her favorite drink was Gin and tonic, which I always found disgusting.

end transmission.