After blogging for close to a year—gasp/holy shit, think of all the hours I’ve shat on the computer—I have come to believe that whatever you send out into the blogosphere, it comes back to you somehow (yah, yah, I’m lifting that from The Secret).
Just yesterday I wrote about that evil little boy from my youth who wanted to see my goods. Well today there was a message waiting for me in my Facebook inbox and it was from my third grade boyfriend whom I haven’t heard from in 25 years.
Not since he wrote me this note back in 1984:
(If you can’t read it, it says, “Dear Christina, Can you come over June 7 or 12 after school? You do not have to if you want. It is alright with my mom. Bring your bathing suit because I went swimming over the weekend and if it is warm enough we will go swimming! Are you playing tag?”)
In what can only be described as the cruelest twist of fate, Brian moved just before the first week of June and I never got to experience the Sri Lanka that was his swimming pool.
Man, oh man, I had it bad for him. He had creamy white skin and pale blue eyes. He wore cardigans and a braided leather belt, and he looped the excess belt over the top because he was such a twig. Sometimes I felt fat standing next to him.
I wanted to ask him if he still does that with his belts but we, um, haven’t moved into the Intimate Questions Realm yet. In fact, I didn’t even tell him I had the note. Chuck personally thought it was “cute but weird” that I’ve held on to it this long. (By the way, Chuck doesn’t have appendix issues, might be an ulcer, blah blah). I think it’s perfectly wonderful that I still have it. Though God, I hope I don't get hit by a bus tomorrow because my life has somehow come full circle. That would really blow.
Anyway, what do you think? Will Brian think I'm a freak if I tell him I have The Note? Will he be pissed I didn't heed his warning about not showing it to anyone? Will Chuck's ulcer balloon to monstrous proportions if I keep getting giddy about my third grade love?
Facebook, you insidious Pandora's Box you.
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