Not very Valentine-y

At lunch today a woman told me about her worst Valentine's Day ever. The story began "When I was in the third grade, I had a crush on this boy ..." I was secretly amused by this, since MY worst Valentine's Day ever starts kind of the same way. Only I was in seventh grade, and I had simultaneous crushes on not one boy, but TWO boys who were best friends. David and Dean. Liking two guys at once seems kinda slutty now that I think about it, but back then it was all very innocent. In fact, as a younger child I fearlessly harbored crushes on five, ten, twenty boys at once. In third grade, I used my red leather-covered diary to record rankings of boys I had crushes on. Every night I would dig the little book out of a dresser drawer, unlock it with a tiny gold key, and review the list from the night before. Then I would make a new list ranking all the cute boys in my class who were fortunate enough to be the object of my incredibly discriminating taste. I was always an oddly organized child.

But anyway ... David and Dean. I'm not sure exactly why I had crushes on these boys. I mean, they were super-cute. But they hated my guts! And they were always so mean to me. Teachers would always be, like, "Amy, they are mean to you because they like you!" I always thought that was such bullshit. Still do. Anyhow, here we are, Valentine's Day, 1990. I didn't have a boyfriend, but that didn't mean I wasn't completely optimistic heading to school that day. I mean, who knows what sort of romantic surprises the boys with secret crushes on me might come up with?! So it was with a shriek of glee that I opened my locker after second period to find a gigantic heart-shaped box, trimmed with white lace and big flowery writing that said "Be My Valentine." O, can you imagine the delight?! I threw down my schoolbag and reached into the locker to retrieve my treat. Only when I picked it up, I thought, "Hm. Awfully light for a five-pound box of chocolates!" Then I opened the lid and read this message scrawled on the inside of the box:

Roses are red,
violets are blue,
you suck,
you fucking bitch.

Or, I don't know ... something like that. Something that began with "Roses are red," and something that ended with the eff and the bee. After I read it, my face grew hot and teary. Don't recall what I did next, but I do remember hearing those horrid boys cackling down the hall. To this day, I haven't the faintest idea how those assholes broke into my locker. And what I really hate about that story is that it bubbles up in my brain on this day every single year. Isn't that depressing? Isn't that sad? Well, I'll share with you the thing that always makes me feel better. I know for a fact that despite being cute and athletic in junior high, both of those guys went on to be losers as adults. And I didn't. I win!