My best friend in high school was a douche. I know it sounds twisted, but
that’s what I used to call him in my head. Douche. He was one of those towards who you express conflicting emotions of both love and hatred. We shared
a bond, strengthened by the common love towards outdoor sports, Green Day and
dark humor. But, he was the Ranchodas Chanchad of our group, and it so happens
that perfection in another causes envy in self. He won the sprint
challenge by half a second; he scored more goals in the football finals; he
spoke more languages, and he had a Parker pen. Even the math
lords, Newton and Pythagoras, were indirectly working in his favor. While girls
shot affectionate, sisterly looks at me for helping them solve their math
problems, they laughed at Rancho’s theatrics involved in his attempts to find
the mysterious x.