in the 6th grade, i was in love with a boy named Ryan. He was dreamy in 6th grade terms, he was popular, played soccer, blue eyed, and his father drove a Jaguar (which i imagined us inheriting on our wedding day). i pined after him for the entire school year, even started shaving my legs for the first time in hopes he would notice. i devotedly (read: pathetically) scoured every teen magazine in hopes of advice on how to get him to be mine. In one of the magazines in particular, there was a section of readers’ art and poetry. One poem spoke to me in particular. It waxed poetic (no pun intended) about a girl’s secret crush and perfectly articulated exactly what I wanted to say to Ryan insomuch that I was convinced if he could only read it, it would surely make him mine. So i copied the poem onto my best stationary.
Not only did i copy it but I wrote it in calligraphy. (i found an old calligraphy set in our basement, complete with how-to instructions and i meticulously practiced each letter of the poem until it was a perfect representation of not only my feelings but the hours of calligraphic pratice). the only alteration that i made to the poem was my signature “from, your secret admirer.” I put the letter in my bookbag and shuttled it to school daily for about a week, unable to figure out how to get it into his desk all while becoming increasingly less certain about delivering it as each day passed. then one day, the odds tipped in my favor.
On this day, Ryan got sick in school and had to be sent home and my teacher asked ME to pack the books in his desk into his bookbag. I took this as a sign of the opportunity that I had been waiting for. I steathily sneaked the letter to his desk, placed it in the middle of a textbook, packed everything into his bookbag and gave it to my teacher. My logic was that he would be out sick for a few days, wouldn’t find it for a few days or even weeks, think that it was in his textbook for awhile, never speak of it out loud and the entire thing would never be traced back to me. this was the logic of a simpleton.
Ryan came back to school the next day, with the letter in hand, and had started a major investigation into its origins. I unconvincingly feigned surprise, interest, and tried to also play detective in order to hide my identity as the author (or plagiarizer). By the end of the day, it was pretty much apparent to everyone that that I wrote the letter. I was the only known person who had access to his desk and had packed his bookbag the day before. When I was approached by the cool girls who directly confronted me about writing the letter, I felt my face turn red yet I continued to deny any and all involvement. However, because no one had claimed authorship and my teacher was a huge bitch, she decided to read it out loud in front of the entire class in hopes of getting a confession and further reinforcing mortification. I turned bright red, everyone watched my face as she read it but yet to this day, I never publicly owned up to the letter.
this story, and hopefully this blog are indicative of the ridiculousness that consumes my life, spurned predominantly by my own misdeeds and doings. now, thirteen years later I realize I haven’t changed much; i’m still hopelessly quixotic, rash, and impulsive. but this time, and only here, am i owning up to it all.