When I was in elementary school,
I used to write the names of every crush under my desk in pencil, in case I
wanted to go back and erase it later. It was almost like my own hushed voodoo.
The thought was, in confirming this reverie in graphite I was also planting the
idea in his pre-pubescent brain—how early the plotting begins.
I would tell no one of my track record. I would deny and stall until I got some
sign of reassurance that he liked me too. Of course this like gnawing on an
over-due hangnail, arduous and futile. Yet there is something to be said of
allowing skittish penchants to run their course without action. What is said of
children is erroneous; I daresay I possessed a patience with love far superior
to my current disposition.
Now I write all over my heart in sharpie and spill frivolous fantasies to each
and every lady friend—they sigh in concord. Maybe my 5th grade brain
had it right all along; it would be advantageous to let sentiments steep and if
they are worthy, record the feelings with erasable inscriptions.
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