Before you tear up this letter, please hear me out. If you give me a half chance to explain you'll see that this is just one big misunderstanding.
Here's what happened. I was near your house on Friday when I spotted you playing bocce through my binoculars. The way you pulled your hair from your face and stared in my general direction melted my heart. It was clear that you were into your game, and that's why I didn't want to wait for you to let me into your house or escort me up to your bedroom. I thought that was considerate of me. Once upstairs, I pulled from my pocket the bobby pin you dropped in class last week and started to work on your lock. It opened so easily -- as though you were begging me to enter your life.
What a mess! Your bedspread was in a pile on the floor, there was dust behind the bureau and your underwear drawer was complete chaos. You needed some serious help cleaning up, and that's why I was busy putting your dirty laundry into my backpack when you barged in -- completely unannounced -- and started screaming, "Ahhh! Get out of my room!"
"Wait! I can explain."
"Take off my bra and leave or I'm calling the cops!"
"But Trina, you don't underst..."
"How did you know my name?" You started crying.
When I saw you so scared, shaking timidly in the corner, I wanted to hold you and tell you that everything was going to be alright. But when I went in for the hug, you just backed away, completely unwilling to be comforted. I left with the vision of your tear-stained face burned into my memory.
I feel so bad about scaring you. I was just trying to help you out. I know you've had a rough last few weeks. Why don't we meet up and talk about it? Anyway, I need to return your diary and some of your underwear.
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Anthony here! We've had a lot of fun with this column, but one thing is not funny -- panty raids. If you or someone you know has been the victim of a panty raid, please get help. Call me at (267) 975-4676 for a free consultation.
