My life is boring. There is nothing particularly interesting about me. I have no special talents or abilities. Exciting things don’t happen to me. I live in Florida in a city you’ve probably never heard of.
And this is my story.
Let’s fast forward for the time being to my junior year of high school. Heck, let’s skip right to my first kiss. Underwhelming romantic, it took place in a soundproof piano room in the school’s independent music study area.  I ditched some school ceremony to rendezvous with him. We both sat on the wooden bench in silence. I was aching for him to kiss me, but he was playing hard to get.
“I’m not going to kiss you unless you tell me you want me to.”
“Why are you doing this? You know I want you to.”
“But I want you to say it.”
“I want you to kiss me.”
And he did. It was awkward, but I didn’t realize at the time. I was too busy reveling in the moment. I’d made a bet with myself at the beginning of the year – that this year – my sixteenth pathetic year here on planet earth would be the one that I got my first kiss. I had succeeded. I was elated.