I read somewhere that Oreos are as addictive as crack cocaine. If that's the case, then Law and Order: SVU is the new Oreo. (Hey, at least it's fat free!)

So it's New Years Eve blah blah blah whatever whatever. I'd rather pretend it's just Tuesday. Because if it's 2014, that means I'd have to face the fact that I'm graduating this semester--and I am not about that life, okay? You can go sing Auld Lang Syne to your heart's content (psh, like you even know the words), but I think I'll just ring in the new Hump Day, December 32nd.

Also I know, whoa, a blog post, you never thought you'd see the day. Neither did I. The holidays are a magical time.


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Okay, so the story I'm about to tell you may irrevocably change your opinion of me. It's even worse than the voodoo doll story. Seriously.

Confession: I was a Twi-hard.

That's right, I was one of those crazy Twilight-obsessed vampire groupies who wore a "Team Edward" t-shirt and purposefully used words like "kismet" and "moot point" because Stephanie Meyer did. Now, let the shock of that statement sink in first before I go back to the beginning. Drink some water if you need to. I know this might be difficult to hear.

For starters, I blame Megan.

Megan, a fellow member of a group of friends self-titled The Posse and one of the coolest #cats I know, brought this curse upon me. Back in the days of tenth grade, we were both pretty weird (not that we aren't even weirder now, I'm just trying to give you context). And until each school day officially started, we weren't allowed to go to our classrooms because, well, what kind of kids except delinquents and troublemakers would want to be in their classrooms before they absolutely needed to be? To prevent raucous behavior, we were required to stay in an orderly formation in the hallways on the main floor, and Megan and I used to sit together next to the wheelchair kids. I'm not really sure why we chose to sit next to them, as they were highly aggressive and angsty and would often get into fights, ramming into each other with their tricked out death machines and yelling obscenities at kids who had nicer rims or cooler LEDs--it was a little traumatizing. Anyway, one day Megan and I were sitting there, trying not to get run over by one particularly angry redhead (which, I mean, was understandable--he was probably like "I'm in a wheelchair and I'm a ginger!? Why, God, why!?) (I'm just kidding, I have nothing against redheads and their gene pool is slowly dwindling so let's not antagonize them) and Megan turned to me and asked me that fateful question: "Have you ever read Twilight?"

Twilight? I'd never even heard of it. Sounded kind of stupid to me. I mean, it's titled Twilight? What's next, a book called New Moon? Give me a break. "What's it about?"

"Uh.....Well don't judge it based on this but.....it's about a coven of vampires."

"What!? Vampires!? Are you serious?" Megan had clearly gone insane. I couldn't believe she thought I'd be interested in this garbage.

"No! Seriously! It's so good! I'll lend it to you--just start reading it and I promise you'll love it!"

Yeah. Right. We'll see.

The next day, she brought the book in. "What!? This book is so long! I don't have time to read this!" Between homework and stalking pop punk bands and sulking in my room, I didn't have a whole lot of free time.

"Once you start reading it, I promise, you'll finish it in no time!"

Yeah. Right. We'll see.

That night I took the book home and opened the cover, not expecting much. But by page five, I was hooked. I finished it in a matter of a few days.

There was something about Twilight that was almost intoxicating. It certainly wasn't the genius of the prose--though I wasn't judging that as harshly as I probably should have at the time. It was the characters. Okay, definitely not Bella. Bella was essentially a nincompoop: she made pretty stupid, irresponsible, and nonsensical decisions all the time (here, let me walk around alone in this random town where there are random dudes who could murder me). She was a shell of a personality in an unusually pale and twig-like body, and by the end of the book you really don't know that much about her--but that's the point. Bella was supposed to be a surrogate for the reader. It was brilliant, really. Instead of Edward and Jacob falling for some actual character in the book that you'd then have to be jealous of, Edward and Jacob actually fell in love with you. Isn't that nice?

The Cullen family was the epitome of cool. The ideal super young parents who were concerned for your well-being but not bossy or judgmental. The super hot siblings (who weren't actually related at all so it would have been okay if they had called each other super hot) (they didn't) who enjoyed being smartasses to one another but protected each other when it really got down to it. They'd been alive so long that, not only were they filthy rich, but they had accumulated a gazillion diplomas, lots of awesome clothes, and the best stories to tell at parties ("One time, the Dalai Lama and I were having lunch with Prince Edward and the craziest thing happened") (that story's not actually in the book). And they had a badass house that was 90% glass in the middle of the woods for god's sake--I would probably wet the bed every night if I had to live there. They were all way excited to have a cute little human friend (except Rosalie, but she was just kind of a bitch anyway) and, like, they were vegetarians so they only murdered animals--Bella was totally safe with them (unless she got a papercut, then it was like...sucks to suck). Alice dressed her up like she was little doll (because otherwise she'd only wear drab sweaters that were totally wrong for her body type) and everyone always had a jolly good time playing baseball, the great vampire pastime.

And then there was Edward himself. What's not to love? That bronze hair (though in my mind he had black hair and looked a lot like Gaspard Ulliel--I recommend Googling him if you don't mind drooling all over your keyboard). That sparkly skin (I always did love a dude who liked to shimmer). Those golden (though sometimes terrifyingly red) eyes. Sure, he was kind of obsessive. Sure, he was kind of controlling. And sure, he may have wanted to kill Bella every second that they were together--but he was suppressing it! C'mon, that shit's basically heroism. He just loved Bella so much--and since I was essentially Bella, he loved me so much. There was something slightly dysfunctional but absolutely wonderful about it. I'd be like "Oh yeah, Edward, stalk me to this random town and angrily drive me home in your Volvo" and "Oh yeah, Edward, lurk outside my bedroom window like a total creep." His brooding and occasional murderous rage was somehow charming.

And of course there was also Jacob. Poor kid. Never stood a chance really. All in all, I found him to be pretty annoying in the books with his whole "WHY WON'T YOU LOVE ME" routine. But I guess going through your awkward teen years and learning how to morph into a humongous killer wolf would be a little stressful on anyone. And let's be real, Bella was such a tease. (Wait--does that mean I was such a tease too? Whoops.)

I read the second and third books, New Moon and Eclipse in a matter of weeks and I could not get enough Twilight in my life. I stocked up on all kinds of memorabilia--for my birthday I even got the bracelet that Edward gives Bella in Eclipse, with the little wolf charm and the little crystal heart on it. And I wore that thing with pride.

I also got into Twilight around the exciting time when both the first movie was in the process of filming and Breaking Dawn, the super shitty fourth book in the series, was about to come out. (Seriously, I went to the midnight release of Breaking Dawn, read the entire book from 1am to about 3pm, pausing only to snack, and it was a complete disaster. A stupid mutant baby? That Jacob imprints on? That the Volturi get super pissed about and are ready to start an epic battle royale over only to get there and be like "haha jk nvm we'll just leave"? I was livid. I almost burned my copy but then decided I needed it for aesthetic purposes). It was an exciting time in the Twilight world. So what did I do? What any mega super fan does: I joined an internet Twilight forum.

I know, I know, you're rolling on the floor laughing just thinking about this. It's fine, I understand.

As with my initial induction into the Twilight cult, Megan was responsible for this as well. She told me about the forum one day, so I went home to check it out--and of course I ended up joining. Unlimited Twilight news!? Discussions about the accuracy of casting in the movie!? Lengthy explanations about how vampires mate!? (I kid you not, the VMT, or "Vampire Mating Thread," was one of the most popular on the site, and it was full of super committed members who really had a thing for extended metaphors.) It was like I was in heaven. I could indulge in my nerdy obsession with all of these fellow nerds and no one would judge me. And everyone was so welcoming--users seemed genuinely happy to "meet" new people and have them join in on discussions. It was a new sort of phenomena to me, but it was endlessly intriguing.

I started out just posting on Twilight-related threads, talking about which book was the best (I'm a fan of the original Twilight), who would make a better snuggle buddy (obviously Jacob since he was so warm and his body wasn't hard as a rock), and what it would be like when Edward and Bella finally did it (the answer: anti-climactic--thanks for nothing, Stephanie Meyer). But eventually I branched out into the non-Twilight sector, known as the "Flight to Phoenix" section, where people could talk about whatever they wanted. And I became quite a regular poster on the "NBOAD" a.k.a. the "Never Been on a Date" thread.

The NBOAD was more of a general thread about dating and relationships, though there were quite a few true NBOADers, myself included. I'm not really sure what gave me the idea that I could give could dating advice. Not only had I never been on a date, but, at that time, it didn't look like I'd be going on one anytime soon (especially given my extracurricular hobby of being a Twi-hard). But the girls (and few guys) on this thread all seemed pretty desperate, and I'm a good listener, so I soon became the resident expert. I helped people through nasty breakups. I helped people figure out how to approach crushes. I helped people regain their self-esteem after some asshole had torn it down. It got to the point where, if I didn't post at least once a day, people would start freaking out. "Where are you!?" "We need you!" "I could really use your help!" I was even so well-known for my love-guru status that people would refer other users to me: "I heard maybe you could help me. There's this guy..." Two of my fellow NBOADers even dated themselves, over the internet, while thousands of miles apart (it didn't quite work out...but guess who was there to help them through the breakup).

It was a very weird thing. I love helping people, and that's why I was so committed to the thread for so long (well over a year). But the amount that people were willing to share about themselves with a complete stranger on the internet was mindboggling. People would share their deepest, darkest secrets and issues without hesitation. I once had a girl go missing because she was suicidal--and it struck me that there was a person (somewhere in Europe) who was really having these real problems and could really cause herself harm, and I was one of the only people who knew about it. (She came back a few days later and assured us that she was fine, though I don't recall hearing from her ever again.) Nobody truly knew anything about me outside of my reputation on this internet forum, and yet people trusted me without hesitation. And, eventually, some of these people even started adding me on facebook--destroying the security of their anonymity, but still being just as open with me. (I must have looked trustworthy; I don't know, does Taylor Swift look trustworthy?)

Eventually, I couldn't handle all that responsibility to help the masses--and I had to do real-life things like apply to college and rehearse for a show--so I sort of resigned my post as Dr. Love. I still keep in touch with a few people from the NBOAD; one of them is a dear penpal of mine from the UK, and we still love to swap juicy stories and dating advice. But, when I look back at my experience on the Twilight forum, I think about all of those people I encountered and where they might be now--and I wonder if a few simple words from one stranger on the internet to another may have actually made an important difference in someone's life. The fact that a thread on a forum could be a support system for people from all over the world, who'd been brought together by nothing more than a common interest in a poorly-written vampire novel--just like Twilight itself, it was simultaneously dysfunctional and wonderful. (My NBOAD days really helped me in thinking about the show that I co-wrote about our behavior on the internet, Sparksource.)

Also eventually, I got sick of Twilight. The movies were garbage, the books got to be too mainstream, and I moved on to actual pieces of literature like East of Eden and The Sun Also Rises (yeah, so I'm a pompous English major, deal with it). Although I think what actually did it for me was the one meeting of the Twilight Club that Megan and I attended out of curiosity. Never in my life have I been more afraid of being murdered by a group of girls with purple hair and black clothes and vampire fetishes. I think I threw in the towel right then and there.

But Twilight served its purpose in my life, and I served my purpose on the NBOAD, and now all I have of those days are the memories, letters from my penpal, and a leftover interest in vampires that I indulge in with The Vampire Diaries.

Shut up, you know Ian Somerhalder is a babe too.

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And yet another parental occasion inspires a blogpost...

If you know my dad, you love him.

I honestly cannot think of anyone who has met my father and doesn't find him endlessly entertaining.

Except for that one friend who thought he was a bank robber because he tends to dress in suspicious black clothing all the time . . . But aside from her, people tend to think my dad is both crazy and hilarious. Because he is. (Though he's usually more crazy than he is hilarious when you have to live with him 24/7 . . .)

My best friend Rachael and I are so humored by his everyday weirdness that, for her birthday one year, I bought her a bag of personalized M&M's that had a picture of his face on them. My mom thought it was a little strange, but Rachael totally got it. She refused to eat them so she can keep them forever.

You see, my dad sort of lives in his own little world. For one, he doesn't really like to have friends. His mantra in this regard, as Groucho Marx (and later Woody Allen) put it, is "I don't want to belong to any club that would have me as a member." So most friends are out of the question because who would want to be friends with him? (The real answer is everybody, but I'm not sure he's aware of that.)

Since he therefore doesn't really have anyone else to chat with, he tends to talk to himself. Like, a lot. As I have once quoted him saying, "Yeah, I talk to myself. At least I listen!" At any given time he's usually mumbling something incoherent under his breath--that, or if he's at home, actually blatantly talking out loud. I used to ask him what he was saying, but I've come to realize over the years that I would probably rather not know.

His favorite place to talk to himself is in the shower. This is where he whistles (and he is actually a darn good whistler--like, we're talking professional quality whistling here), sings (usually songs that he's made up on his own--"Half Drank Sodas for Sale" is a classic, as his major pet peeve is when we open a Coke and only take a few sips out of it), and talks to himself, sometimes as different characters. I listened in on a shower conversation he was having with Charlie the Tuna once: "Sorry, Charlie, but there's only room enough in this town for one of us!" I have literally no idea what he was talking about, but I'm sure it was completely rational in his mind. Sometimes my whole family will just camp out outside the bathroom door and listen to him--it always promises to be a rollicking good laugh.

When Daddy does talk to people, it's usually to complain. He is one for ranting, that's for sure. (If you'd like an example, take a look at the quotes section on my Facebook. It will not disappoint.) Driving aggravates him. Going to stores aggravates him. Watching TV aggravates him. But when it comes down to it, he's all bark and no bite. "That guy cut me off! If you weren't in the car, I'd stalk his ass down and brandish a baseball bat out of the window!" "Right, sure you would, Dad." I've never seen him so much as get attitude with a cashier or a waiter--nothin'. He's like the little chihuahua that thinks it can take down the pitbull across the street: sometimes a little loud and snappy, but mostly just cute and harmless.

He likes to complain about work too, as everyone does. But he's worked for thirty years (or something crazy like that) on third shift. Third shift. I mean, you couldn't pay me enough to work third shift for three decades. Him working third shift helped mine and my brother's childhood flow almost perfectly, though: mom works during the day and entertains the youngsters/drives them to activities in the evening, we all get to have dinner together, dad works at night and picks us up from school/goes on field trips/takes care of sick children during the day. I remember it working so well as a child that it never occurred to me that other families didn't operate like that. But Daddy always took care of us, no matter if he'd had four hours of sleep or forty minutes of sleep. My mom always describes him as a good provider, and I think that's an apt description--he's always there when we need him.

Most of my friends tend to think he's some kind of CIA spy or FBI official or something, though. And there is some evidence to support this theory. No one in the family has ever been to his current place of business. I couldn't even tell you what he does; his title is "Operations Analyst," as if that isn't the most dubious thing ever. His last place of business I went to a couple of times as a kid, but all I remember is an endless row of tape slots . . . and all I remember him doing is taking tapes out of certain slots and placing them into different ones. Thinking about it now, it sounds like some serious sorcery. Also, there is the fact that my dad has supposedly worked with "computers" for 20+ years now, and yet he still types with two fingers, like a chicken pecking mercilessly on the keyboard. He also can't figure out iTunes to save his life (although with this new version, who really can). So, with these pieces of evidence in hand, as well as the fact that he is super stealthy always, I think FBI agent is probably a good guess.

Outside of work and taking care of the chilluns (pets included), my dad has few major hobbies. He likes to watch TV (with Duck Dynasty and Redneck Island being two of his favorite current shows, Seinfeld being his all-time favorite show). We often joke that if he likes a show, it's going to get cancelled, because his taste in TV is usually pretty strange. He also likes NASCAR (if you've ever seen our garage, you couldn't have missed the wall-sized mural of Tony Stewart's bright orange #20 car) and a plethora of other sports. He enjoys cooking--he almost always made the dinners during my childhood, and the guy could open up shop in his own restaurant tomorrow and make millions of dollars as the next Bobby Flay/Anthony Bourdain hybrid. But mostly, these days, he likes to run.

A couple of weekends ago, he ran his first marathon. And not just any old marathon: a trail marathon. Like creekbeds and rocks and mud and stuff. Now, this may not seem that daunting considering I told you that he likes to run; however, it helps to know that up until that point, he had never run more than maybe 15 or so miles. Definitely never 26 (point two, for you technical ones). And definitely not on trails. Needless to say, my mother and I were a bit worried that he might not make it through. We showed up to support him at the finish line, and we waited well past the time he'd ballparked that he'd be done.

He had told us that if you didn't reach the 20-mile marker by a certain time, they'd pick you up and drive you to the finish line. My mom and I sat there, anxiously hoping we wouldn't see him ride-of-shaming it in some windowless van to meet us at the end. Each time I saw a runner come into view around the last bend, I'd strain my eyes, hoping and praying it'd be him. Finally, after a total run time of about 6 hours and 45 minutes, I saw him come trucking down the road in his signature gait, one arm pumping steadily along, the other flopping awkwardly against his chest. We cheered for him as he crossed the finish line with a look of triumph. The marathon people then handed him a mini Louisville Slugger that said "Back of the Pack": he had come in dead last.

But honestly, I couldn't have been more proud of my father that day. He did something a lot of people--me included--could never do, and he did it with more perseverance than I could ever fathom. And he did it in his own way, in his own time, as he does everything else in his life. He inspired me to continue running a few times a week, even though sometimes I hate it and sometimes it's awful. He inspires me a lot in that way--always working hard, and always staying true to himself.

My dad used to be the party man, hanging out with my brother and his friends, downing mint juleps at Derby. Now he has to wear readers to look at a menu and he enjoys his "robe time" on the couch snuggling with our dog more than most things he could probably think of. But he'll always be the fun, the funny, the freak: my father. And for that, I will always love him dearly.

Happy Father's Day, ya'll!

Doing the Steve Zissou

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It Ain't Just Any Other Sunday, Ya'll.

When you're out with your mom, people (usually waiters looking for a fat tip or sales clerks looking for some commission, and almost always males) often say, "Oh, is this your sister?" And they usually get that fat tip or commission because, well, that's sweet--even though it's pretty obvious that if he really seriously thought your mom was your sister, he'd probably need to see an optometrist in the near future.

But, in my case, this comment gets made by many different people on a regular basis, whether when my mom and I are out together or when someone sees a picture of us. Because my mom and I are actually twins.

Okay, not actually, because we all know genetics doesn't work that way.

Unless I was cloned . . . which is not entirely out of the question . . .

Nahhh, I've got my dad's weird sense of humor and tendency to talk to myself. (Exhibit A, the conversation I just had with myself via text. Oops.)

But my mom and I are pretty darn similar--in looks, mannerisms, the way we think, the way we interact with people. And when we're together, we act like sisters, giggling at the silliest things, talking about shopping and mani/pedis, and people-watching like there's no tomorrow. Sometimes she sends me pictures of Ryan Gosling just so we can bask in how attractive he is.

Now, I don't have an actual sister, but my brother and I certainly aren't sitting around trading pics of hot dudes.

In her role as my sister-mom (though, now that I think about it, I'm not a huge fan of that term, as it reminds me of something you'd hear on some weird Mormon polygamy compound--but I digress, you know what I mean), she is always there for me when I need her. She made sure I had the perfect pair of expensive prom shoes even though she knew I was only going to wear them for three hours of my life. She helped me torture a voodoo doll of my high school arch nemesis (if you missed that story, you should check it out here.) She always made sure I had the coolest themed birthday parties when I was a kid; one was a "Surivivor" party (like with buffs and Jeff Probst, not like with Destiny's Child, although that would have been pretty sweet too) complete with bonfires, sleeping in tents, ridiculous obstacle courses, and nasty food challenges--which was all pretty sick until one girl almost got blinded by smoke and was sent home. (But hey, survival of the fittest, I guess.)

My mom is always trying to protect me too. When we're in the car and she has to stop quickly, her arm automatically flings out across my chest (because that will definitely stop all the momentum of a several thousand pound hunk of metal crashing into us . . . although moms are supposed to have super strength in times of crisis, so maybe I shouldn't joke). One time, when we were staying at a cabin in Gatlinburg for my senior spring break, she thought a bloodthirsty serial killer was on the loose in the night, and she was poised and ready to call 911 with one hand and karate chop that bastard to Timbuktu with the other. (It turned out some hillbillies were just hunting raccoons or something at three in the morning, totally normal.) Another time, when she came to visit me when I was staying at Wolfie's farmhouse, she woke me up in the night because she thought a strange white van was in the driveway, and she was more than prepared to use Wolfie's century-old farm tools to go all Saw VI on this rapist/robber/killer's ass. (That one turned out to just be MY car in the driveway . . . but it was dark . . . and the house probably had a gas leak causing hallucinations . . .  or something.)

Whenever I need someone to run lines with me--a semi-banal activity that most of my friends hate--she'll gladly spend hours going through my script, using a different voice for every character.

When I was four and I wanted to be a witch for Halloween, she spent an exorbitant amount of time painting my face to perfection, complete with a nasty witch wart and all. When I then cried upon seeing myself in the mirror because I was too scary, she washed her masterpiece away to ease my fears.

When I got in my first wreck in her car (which pretty much consisted of me knocking this woman's side mirror off while she was sleeping in her car, and her aggressively bitching me out--talk about over-reacting . . .), and I called her crying, she had someone drive her right over, and she even let me buy a dress to make myself feel better.

When my dad cut his finger open one Halloween and needed stitches, she dropped me off at a friend's house so that I could still get my mad candy swag on while they were at the hospital. I got a whole bag of freshly-popped kettlecorn and a new toothbrush to compliment it that year.

When I was at a dance competition and someone else's mom drew ridiculous dark brown eyebrows on my already ridiculously gem-covered face, my mom scrubbed those suckers till they were almost a normal shade so I wouldn't look like a scary eyebrow monster in all the pictures.

When my boyfriend broke up with me right before finals season freshman year, she sent me my favorite kind of cookies--chocolate chip sans chocolate chips--the very next day, along with an encouraging Hallmark card with bunnies on it.

When her mom (with whom she had a very strained relationship) was in the hospital, we roadtripped up to Illinois together to see her, and despite the deep emotional issues involved with the situation, we laughed and laughed and almost peed our pants everywhere we went, joking about Schwan's root beer floats, and people crunching ice, and Grandma Fran telling me the stuffed puppy I bought her at the gift store was ugly. We kept each other sane.

And that's what we always do: keep each other sane. We try to make sure we're not being stupid. Should we text that person back? Should we eat that massive dessert? Should we really watch all twelve hours of that crime show marathon? We look out for each other and support each other and, of course, make sure that we always look fabulous.

Most college kids don't talk to their parents much. They might text, maybe call them occasionally. But I talk to my mom at the same time every single day.

Because we're two peas in one genetic pod--or probably more like a Twix bar, because, let's be real, peas are too healthy for our taste. One of us without the other is like Olivia Benson without Eliot Stabler (before they got rid of him on SVU, which is just malarkey, as we all know), or like Mary Kate without Ashley, or like Tommy without Chuckie (the goofy redhead with the untied shoes, not that creepy murderous doll). We're a team.

When I was little, my mom used to tuck me in and kiss me goodnight with the same little routine. She'd say, "I love you *kiss* God bless you *kiss* Sweet dreams *kiss* See you in the morning *kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss* You are my world." I remember that mantra sometimes, and I realize that the reverse still is, always has been, and always will be, true. You are my world, Mom. A huge reason why I am the crazy, fun, caring, driven, mostly-put-together-at-least-in-public person that I am. And for that, I will never be able to thank you enough.

Happy Mother's Day, Momma!

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Wait a Second, Is This a Blogpost? OH SNAP.

...Hello there.

Clearly I haven't blogged in like a million years. And by that I mean over a year. Which is basically the same thing.

My bad, ya'll.

I can't make any promises about how often I'll keep this up in the future...but I thought it was at least time to make a little comeback from my hiatus.

For Valentine's Day, obviously.

So here's a story for you...I don't really care if you like it or not. (Okay, actually I do, but put me on the stand and I'll LIE.)






For a long time, I was a cynic about love. "Who needs it?" I would say to myself. "It's gooey and icky and gross." Whenever Valentine's Day rolled around, my mom would send a bouquet of flowers to me at school. The teachers and other girls in class would swoon, thinking some stupid knight in shining Levi's was making some grand romantic gesture. But I, bitter and begrudging, would set them straight: "These are from my mother, you plebeian romantics. Boys are stupid and ugly and if one gave me flowers I'd send them through a wood chipper." (Perhaps I wasn't that vivd with my imagery, but you get the idea.)

This cynicism did not just blacken my Grinch heart one day out of the blue. It was inspired, as many things in my life have been (see: vegetarianism), by a boy. A cute boy. The cutest boy, if I do say so myself.

I was five. It was kindergarten. The big leagues. Boys in preschool had been whatever, I guess, but I had been too busy learning how to tie my shoes and playing on the monkey bars to care. But in kindergarten, I noticed boys. Or, rather, I noticed this particular boy.

Nathan Wall.

Yes, that was actually his name. Not very poetic, I'll grant you that, but what did I care? I'd stare at him during shaving cream playtime (that was seriously a thing--I can't be the only one who partook in that), during storytime, during show-and-tell. Basically, there weren't very many minutes of the school day when I wasn't staring at Nathan Wall.

He was beautiful. Blonde bowl cut hair. Dreamy brown eyes. Super cool Michael Jordan-inspired outfits complete with badass light-up shoes. I mean, what was not to like about this boy?

I was in love. I was convinced. Most of what I knew about love had come from Disney movies and Boy Meets World, and I was quite sure that he was both my Prince Charming and my Cory Matthews. It was destiny.

Being young and mostly uninhibited, I did whatever I could to be around him, talk to him, do things for him. "Oh, do you need a swing!? Take mine!" "What a cool crayon color you're using. That dinosaur is practically anatomically correct!" "Snack Pack for lunch!? No way, me too!" Before I knew it, I was in like Flynn. We were best friends. During storytime, he sat by me. During show-and-tell, he'd show and tell right to me. During shaving cream playtime, he'd give himself a Santa beard and make faces only at me. I was ecstatic. He thought I was cool: he complimented by velvet scrunchies, he invited me to his kickball games at recess, he even shared his Oreos with me at snack time.

I started fantasizing about marrying him. I'd scrawl "Christine Wall" in my ratchet kindergarten handwriting on all of my steno pads. I made crude wedding dress designs and thought up ways to get the Spice Girls to sing at our reception. It was Nathan Wall and me, 4ever and ever and ever.

So naturally, when Valentine's Day came along, I decided to make my grand declaration of love. I stayed up for hours and hours the night before, crafting like I'd never crafted in my five years of life. I made him the biggest, sparkliest, most beautiful pink heart Valentine that the world had ever seen. I was seriously expecting Martha Stewart to start asking me for tips. It was a triumph. I carefully slid it into my Lisa Frank backpack and stayed awake all night with giddy excitement to present it to him in class the next day.

At the beginning of the day, the teacher announced that we would have a special time for Valentine exchanges later that afternoon. I bursted with anticipation all morning, stealing looks at him all the while. I was constantly asking for a hall pass to trek to the bathroom and check my strawberry lipgloss and magenta jumper. I had been so confident the night before, but for some reason my apprehension was building: what if he's grossed out? what if he thinks I'm a weirdo and never shares his Oreos with me again? I was sure I'd die.

Finally, it came time for the Valentine exchange. I got the usual Looney Tunes and Winnie the Pooh Valentines, even a few with suckers or candy inside. But I couldn't even get excited about my spoils. I was too nervous.

I somehow found the courage to walk up to him. I hid the ginormous Valentine behind my back, the sparkles shedding all over the floor like shiny dandruff. I tapped him on his shoulder.

"Hey, Nathan!"

"Oh hey, Christine."

"Get some cool Valentines?"

"Oh yeah! I got a whole mess of Sweet-tarts."

"Oh awesome!"

Then there was a pause. I took my chance.

"So listen, Nathan, I--"

"Hey, do you think Amber likes me?"

I stood, dumbfounded, my stomach dropping straight into the soles of my jelly shoes.

"Wha--what?"

"Amber. She's really cute. Do you think she likes me? I want her to be my Valentine."

The whole Earth opened up and fell into the depths of Hell.

"I...I guess so. I don't know how she couldn't like you..."

"Cool! I'm gonna go see if she wants to swing with me at recess."

And with that, he walked away, ripping my five-year-old heart out as he went. I didn't know what to do. Here I was, holding this big stupid pink heart with no one to give it to, my face haphazardly smeared with strawberry lipgloss. I once again asked for the hallpass to go to the bathroom (my teacher, at this point, had become quite suspicious, but I assured her that I had simply consumed too much apple juice at snack time). I ripped the pink heart into tiny pieces and sat on one of the toilet seats, bawling my pathetic little eyes out.

From that moment on, I renounced love and all the dumb stuff that went with it--namely, boys. I stopped hanging out with Nathan Wall, and became best friends with the class psycho who breathed heavily and had a family not unlike that of the creepy foster parents in the classic Mary Kate and Ashley movie It Takes Two. Nathan and Amber went on two playtime dates before she dumped his ass for a kid with spiky hair and an extensive Hot Wheels collection.

And on this Valentine's Day, I look back at this first spurned kindergarten love with the knowledge that, while there will certainly be other disappointments in life, I will one day find someone I'm meant to share my Oreos with.

Besides, "Christine Wall" is perhaps the worst name in the history of naming. Being "Mrs. Wall" sounds about as interesting as being "Mrs. Piece of Beige Construction Paper."

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