More of the same. This is getting boring! Is there no escape (No!) Only 2 more days this week. Aaaaaah! Then I can relax.
To clear up Vincent once and for all: I love what I thought he was and I hate what he is.
Clear?
Clear!
Alright?
Alright!
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Ignoring the obscure Señor Wences reference, here's what was really at work, in retrospect:
I still carried a big flaming torch for Vincent, and if he had suddenly shown an interest in me, all my grumbling and sniping would cease. What I really and truly hated was the realization that the more you share your secret crush, the more embarrassing it can be come. My parents knew, my brother knew, my friends knew (including Helen, one of the notorious phonaholics in school) and it is safe to say Vincent knew. Going to school under those circumstances (especially a small school, only about 650 students) meant being the object of curious scrutiny every time he and I passed each other in the hall or found ourselves in the library at the same time.
Small wonder that I later developed such an affinity for the works of Jane Austen, espcially "Sense and Sensibility", with its dual themes of the dangers of premature public affection AND the pain of private emotion. Part of growing up is learning to savor secret crushes like chocolate-covered cherries, melting slowly behind closed lips. Not chewed with an open mouth.
(Apologies to Forrest Gump.)
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