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Description
He had a flop of brown hair, eyes the colour of liquid chocolate, and his name was CJ.

At the age of nineteen he finished school, and not quite sure what to do with himself, he enrolled in university, where he furthered his high school career as the local Don Juan.

His wardrobe (apparently designed to blind passing strangers with a not so subtle use of colour) included a blue and yellow checked shirt that could have once been a tablecloth, which he wore with fire engine red pants.  That was his favourite.
When he got frustrated, he would bang his head against the nearest wall as if that would make everything better.  When he was happy, he made Speedy Gonzales look sedate.  And his inconstant and totally scatty dating habits were the stuff of feminist’s nightmares.

He was, all in all, gorgeous in a cute dimwitted kind of way.  At least in appearance.  It would seem a shame to attach an IQ to such a package (and CJ would’ve been deeply disturbed if anyone tried) but his wasn’t non-existent and so couldn’t be left out.  Neither could his familiarity with the inside of a jail cell.  These were the things he kept below the surface.

He was nine when his mother died.  He would never say how.  He didn’t talk much about his father either, but there was tension in his voice when he did.

That was CJ.  Instead of parents, he had ghosts.  Instead of friends, groupies.  And a lot of them at that.  His life was one giant overcompensation for insecurities no one ever guessed existed.

Description
He had a flop of brown hair, eyes the colour of liquid chocolate, and his name was CJ.

At the age of nineteen he finished school, and not quite sure what to do with himself, he enrolled in university, where he furthered his high school career as the local Don Juan.

His wardrobe (apparently designed to blind passing strangers with a not so subtle use of colour) included a blue and yellow checked shirt that could have once been a tablecloth, which he wore with fire engine red pants.  That was his favourite.
When he got frustrated, he would bang his head against the nearest wall as if that would make everything better.  When he was happy, he made Speedy Gonzales look sedate.  And his inconstant and totally scatty dating habits were the stuff of feminist’s nightmares.

He was, all in all, gorgeous in a cute dimwitted kind of way.  At least in appearance.  It would seem a shame to attach an IQ to such a package (and CJ would’ve been deeply disturbed if anyone tried) but his wasn’t non-existent and so couldn’t be left out.  Neither could his familiarity with the inside of a jail cell.  These were the things he kept below the surface.

He was nine when his mother died.  He would never say how.  He didn’t talk much about his father either, but there was tension in his voice when he did.

That was CJ.  Instead of parents, he had ghosts.  Instead of friends, groupies.  And a lot of them at that.  His life was one giant overcompensation for insecurities no one ever guessed existed.