Party at Cindy’s:
Ten, twelve guys: who were they? Cindy had rounded up a bunch of Greg’s pals for her cheerleader girlfriends. Preppy white boys from Princeton. Older, richer. Nineteen was older. They would have better pot and their own cars. Strangers. Nobody I knew, which should have been a relief. A dozen guys who hadn’t heard I was a fag. But that was almost worse. Because now I would have to watch them find out.
— “American graffiti” from the john weir story collection your nostalgia is killing me
Kanlaon 