“I don’t think I need to rip on Dave Matthews at this time.”
This one’s a little different, but I think it’s important.
I was 9, in that blissful last stretch before puberty, skidding down California streets on my two-wheeler, Walkman clipped to my jean shorts. I may have started having crushes on boys, but they were undirected. I liked a boy named Noah, but if Noah had tried to hold my hand, I would have run screaming and climbed a eucalyptus tree like a goddamn koala.
Also, Noah didn’t like chocolate or Disneyland, so that crush lasted all the way through computer playtime when I outlasted him on Oregon Trail.