| rdfs:comment | - It was a hot day. I had generally found that, during the summer, most of these otherwise dissimilar days shared a common thread: extreme heat. Perhaps this is related to the season, perhaps not. However, whether or not this was the truth, or even related, is inconsequential, as it has hardly anything to do with the story at hand. The story which I am now going to relay to you, in fact, would occur just as easily in the winter, were it not for winter's predisposition to cold weather.
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| abstract | - It was a hot day. I had generally found that, during the summer, most of these otherwise dissimilar days shared a common thread: extreme heat. Perhaps this is related to the season, perhaps not. However, whether or not this was the truth, or even related, is inconsequential, as it has hardly anything to do with the story at hand. The story which I am now going to relay to you, in fact, would occur just as easily in the winter, were it not for winter's predisposition to cold weather. But I'm rambling. The story takes place in the summer, this much is clear. I was very much uncomfortable due to the heat, as was my friend Brint. His last name was Childs, making his full name Brint Childs. He was a great friend of mine, despite his being black. Now, you may perceive this as blatant, out-and-out racism, and you would be correct. Coming of age, as you will see, is bound to have some adverse effect on your innocence and naivete. In any case, Brint and I were great friends in those days, and we were both very warm. In an attempt to escape the heat, we decided to enter the library on the grounds that we were interested in reading. Now, those who knew us in those days would laugh heartily at this façade, as we were known to engage in many acts of debauchery, none of which involved reading. We were morally opposed to the act of reading the written text. We were much more predisposed to buy pornographic magazines than read them. So there we were, in the library, pretending to read while secretly making eyes at the summer intern, Ashley Franks. She was our age and also ridiculously attractive. Sometimes, when Brint and I were together, we described what lewd acts we would perform on her (and make her perform on us) were we given the chance. I thought I saw her staring at me behind my book, but I was too busy staring at her breasts to really know for sure. Hours later, we left. It is here where I leave you. Surely you found my anecdote both amusing and enjoyable, and will understand the innocence implied by it. Understand, however, that this is not the end of the story, and is merely a stepping stone on my journey to adulthood, and all the pain and suffering that goes with it.
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