In the few years of my young life, before we moved to the shed, my family and I lived in the polluted, sweltering Mecca that is Houston. It was there that I passed the days looting burned out apartments for charred Barbie dolls and their various accoutrement, dreaming of being Evel Knievel (or at least his sexy sidekick), having sleepovers with older boys, and wasting my Latch-Key-Kid hours by soaking in American culture with my face mere inches from the television screen.
Although not much has changed, these days I buy my Barbie supplies, thankyouverymuch. It was also there that I had my first crush on a real live boy. His name was Dallas and he wore a Fonzie t-shirt and curled his upper lip when he spoke, much like Elvis or Billy Idol. He was cool, and he was mine. We had all the passion that five year old kids possess. On Valentine’s Day 1977 (hereinafter referred to as “Wear Your Heart on Your Sleeve So It Can Get Stabbed Through Its Aorta and Bleed to Death Day”), we went on a field trip to a local fire house to meet firemen and play with their hoses. I drew Dallas a special something to commemorate the momentous day. That’s when he stopped coming round. I know I’m no Picasso, but come on!
**At 5 or 31.5, I still give too much too soon and am left in the lurch. Wear Your Heart on Your Sleeve So It Can Get Stabbed Through Its Aorta and Bleed to Death Day 1977 was just the beginning. And so it is, that I do not celebrate love on February 14th or any other day.
**For the record, I did pee on the floor that day. That could have turned him off. I don’t know. You’d have to ask Dallas.