Wheatzie

I used to be the life of the party.  I was hilarious .  People gravitated toward me and by the end of the night—heck, not even the end of the night; five minutes into the party, actually—I’d be unaware that I was holding court, a crowd of people gathered around me laughing so hard they were crying.  There would always be some fraternity-looking guy at the edge shaking his head as if he couldn’t quite believe his eyes: he’d never seen anything like me before.  “For a gangly, plain-looking girl,” he would muse, studying me with wonder after the crowd had dispersed, “you’re actually really cool.” “Thanks,” I’d reply, shrugging my shoulders and turning away because I liked to do that to fraternity-looking guys.  I figured they needed a dose of a gangly, plain-looking girl dismissing them at a party every once in a while. People still come up to me, twenty or more years after any such party, and a reminiscent spark will light up in their eyes as soon as they see me.  We’ll be in the pasta a