| I was eleven years old when I penned my first love letter. In it, I implored the object of my affection, Robert, to look within his 12- (possibly 13-) year-old self to give me another chance. Robert had told me he liked me one morning and later that afternoon he took it back. I decided that perhaps I could persuade him to change his mind a third time, by listing my attributes, in case it wasn't clear. "Why don't you like me? I'm really very nice. And I'm not that ugly, Robert." Of course I never gave him the letter. I must have given up. Most likely I knew that I was bullshitting, not only Robert, but myself. I saved face the only way I knew how at 11 -- by running away. Continue reading...
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