A work in progress:
The juice box was definitely against me. Its resistance was punctuated by a taunting titter. My efforts to open it were futile, it mocked.
No, wait. The snickering was not the juice box. It came from down the lunch table. I didn’t even have to look their way. I knew who was laughing, and I didn’t want to see if it was me they were laughing at. In my heart, I knew it was.
I continued to stab at the little cellophane covered hole with the sadly beveled end of the hard plastic straw like Van Helsing at the climax of a bad B movie. The final strike bent my straw, but rewarded me with a squirt of lukewarm apple juice in the face. An arterial explosion worthy of the best special effects artist in the business.
The laughter from the perfectly coifed girls at the…
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