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Everyone has that one guy. The one that you will always remember. Not necessarily your first crush, but definitely… something.

My first crush was Shea Stamp. I remember his last name only because “stamp” was one of our spelling words in first grade. And I already knew how to spell it.

Between first grade and freshmen year, there were several crushes.

But I didn’t have too many, I was a tomboy and boys were for playing tag, war, hide & seek, or Nintendo.

But every once in awhile, one would sneak in.

Then I made one last move. Started a new school (again). The bus stop was on the opposite side of the block and I knew no one there. The neighborhood kids all played so well together, had known each other for years.

And then there was me.

My first experience with him, he locked me out on his roof. I had been hanging around with the other kids for a week or so, they all liked me. We got along great, a regular bunch of misfits as kids that age generally are.

And he locked me on his roof.

In retaliation, I threw a can of pop at him. From the roof. It landed at his feet and exploded all over.

Then I threatened to climb down the fireplace and let everyone else in. His brother let us back inside, finally.

It was always explosive with him. Time went on, and I harbored my crush secretly, oh so secretly – rarely even telling friends. He collected hearts like it was his job, I didn’t want to be know as “one of those who liked him”.

My best friend at the time had a crush on him.

My best neighborhood friend dated him.

I never said I wanted him.

I was the good girl, I didn’t talk back (at least to teachers), I never snuck out (that my parents knew), I never went beyond second base (until Keith my senior year). I made excellent grades, I said please and thank you. I was the girl next door.

I never knew that he had felt the same pull.

He was the bad boy, too outrageous for me in my mind; I was too tame, too unoriginal.

I was the good girl; mostly pleasant, “perfect” was a word he would later use. He was messed up, dealing with family issues and alcohol.

Then there were the nights he would inspire me to sneak out, just to wander the neighborhood in the dark and talk. Just talk.

There were the days he would crack jokes about himself, to take attention off others.

We brought out the opposite sides in each other.

I thought he was too wild.

He thought I was above him.

Until this past New Years, when I was above him, I never knew any of this.

He told me as we lay in bed, that he used to dream about my “dancer’s legs”.

I never even realized he knew I danced.

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I forget about this sometimes. I don’t mean to, I have the best intentions when it comes to writing.

But sometimes, at night, its easier to pull my written journal out of my inner pocket of my purse, and hand scribble. Its easier when I cry, if its handwritten. The water on the page, blurring the ink, makes it more real. How do you translate that effect to the typed page?

Maybe as I get older I feel I have less to share, less to justify feeling. When I started blogging, sophomore in college. There were no boundaries – I shared my writing and my experiences with everyone from strangers to family to friends, to people I hadn’t seen in 5 years. Now I’m more reticent. I write anonymously, knowing, one day, I will get the courage to share. With everyone.

Until then. There is this.

Its okay to believe in Prince Charming, but you have to believe in midnight too.

disarming (adj): tending to allay suspicion or hostility; winning favor or confidence siren (noun): a seductive or tempting woman, esp. dangerous or harmful

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