Wednesday, May 27, 2015
Bad boys, bad boys, whatcha gonna do?
Back when I was in high school, I always fell for the bad boys. The rebels. The ones with cars, the ones who drank and smoke. Me? I was a little nerd, a good girl, a band geek, an honor society member. But OH did I lust after those bad boys.
One of them was named Pete. Tall, with dark hair and a beautiful smile. EXTREMELY good-looking. He always hung out on Smokers' Hill behind the school, and you KNEW he drank and got in trouble with the best of them.
I am confident that Pete did not know I existed, but I sure had a crush on him.
And here we are, thirty-five years out from high school, and I saw on the news this past weekend that Pete got busted for running a meth lab. (!) Time (and meth) has not treated ol' Pete kindly:
That's his wife there on the right. I don't think meth's been doing HER any favors, either. All Pete needs is a swastika on his forehead and he'd be a dead ringer for Charlie Manson.
Wow. You know, I always just assumed that the bad boys straightened up after high school. Sowed their wild oats, so to speak, got it out of their systems, and carried on with life like the rest of us. I know *I* did my share of carousing in my twenties, but eventually that got old, and responsibilities ensued, and I, well, grew up.
Guess not everybody did. Holy cow.