When I was a teenager I was a little boy crazy. My mom completely disagrees with me, but she doesn’t know the full story. Because, well, why let her think otherwise, right?
Sorry, mom, but you were wrong.
There was this one boy who I was head over heels in love with. Well, I thought it was love. I was sixteen and couldn’t see past my nose, so what did I really know?
I’m going to call him BT, kind of like a bacon and tomato sandwich, but not. I’m sure he’s still around so I can’t really say his name out loud, although if he reads my blog (I highly doubt it), he’ll know he is the subject of my latest story.
Anyway, this guy was everything a sixteen year old girl could want. He was artsy, and cool. He smoked just the right amount of pot and wore a leather jacket. He wasn’t great looking. In fact, he was fairly homely, but he had this certain air about him. Aloof and indifferent. He knew how to act to get the girls. And it worked.
Son of a bitch.
Anyway, let’s just say the dating of this boy set me on the path to making a complete ass of myself for the next, umm. I can’t even remember how long it lasted, it seemed like a year, but I’m sure this all occurred in a short span of ninety days or so. Which was my track record for boyfriends back then. Three months. A dragon fly lives longer.