When I was in school, I developed what could best be described as an apocalyptic crush on a girl who was maybe a year younger than myself. We played during recess a lot, she was a tomboy, and in retrospect I’m 95% certain most of our teachers could’ve told you I’d fallen HARD. One day, I was probably ten, I soaked up every drop of courage in my body and asked her out on a date… Not that I knew what a date WAS, mind you; I just wanted her to know I wanted to be more than friends, and this is how people do that, right? To say it did not go well is a little bit like saying a coastal town got damp after a biblical earthquake. I say this without a trace of hyperbole: she. F******. SCREAMED. A DATE?? ARE YOU KIDDING ME? In retrospect, corpses in the nearest three graveyards likely didn’t pop their heads out to see what the ruckus was about, and every soul between us and Venus probably didn’t immediately know exactly what happened, but f*** you, I was there, that’s what happened. It would’ve hurt more if she’d literally ripped my heart out, taken a bite, dropped the rest on the ground, stepped on it, and set it on fire, but not by much. To this day(this was 21 years ago, btw), I can’t ask a girl out. I even think about it, and all I hear is her screaming bloody murder. If a girl is interested in me, I have no idea. Her signals would have to be visible from space, that’s how oblivious I am.
