When I was in elementary school it was required that all students had to give Valentine’s to everybody. You couldn’t pick and choose and give them only to your friends and crushes. In order to make sure everybody felt loved and accepted everybody got one. So even though he was required to by threat of punishment, when the most popular boy in my class Will, my crush and the guy who my loins burned for, gave me a Valentine I was ESCATIC. It was like Justin Bieber dedicated one of his books to me. That’s how special I felt.
With tentative fingers I gently opened the envelope. I was already mentally preparing to scrapbook it and/or construct an eleborate shadow box out of it. To jazz things up I would even press a vibrant red rose in there and lie to our future children about how he had given it to me while professing his love and holding a boombox that played The Cure’s “Friday I’m in Love” on repeat.
My heart beat quickly and my mouth dried up in young lust as I pulled the card from its sleeve. I licked my lips in sultry anticipation and read: in white bold print it said “Be My Valentine!” Except he had crossed that part out and instead wrote in all capital letters “You’re ugly.” He didn’t even put an exclamation point. It was just like you’re ugly. Period. Case closed. Those are the facts baby.
Next year I thought about giving him a Valentine with two penguins holding hands that said “Eat shit and die.” But I was too mature for that and also I had grown boobs by than and they took up a lot of my time.