R.I.P. Bob Ross. You'll forever be that dude.
Back to that whole conspiracy theorist bullshit I opened with, the "government project blah blah" ish. If Ray Bradbury or a breathing Rod Serling were to conduct a therapy session with me, delving into my many failed attempts at "love," they'd probably come to some conclusion that'd go a lil' somethin' like this: Your parents made a deal with a secret government branch, the same one behind the Roswell cover-ups, and for a large lump sum, they paid for a genetically-engineered newborn. Inside this newborn was implanted a chip that acts as a magnet, pulling women towards it who'll inevitably crush his heart into bits like a Tyrannosaurus clutching a bag full of twigs. The purpose: to test how much heartache one growing, maturing human male can endure before giving up on love altogether. Good luck, Mr. and Mrs. Barone.
Of course, that's total bullshit because my parents would never have done that, and I'm clearly theirs. Besides, look at pictures of my mom as a kid alongside pics of me as a kid---resemblance is uncanny.
To fully understand and combat my unintentional penchant for romantic failure, let's travel back in time, to a setting known as St. Catharine's Interparochial School, a Catholic grammar school in Glen Rock, New Jersey, where yours truly evolved through kindergarten-8th grade. The year: 1993. The 5th grade, in Mrs. Demers' homeroom. The straight-A student that I was, I was pretty well-known amongst our quaint, 19-or-so-kid class. Kids either wanted to cheat off of me or use my assistance to enhance their academic performances. And I, being rather shy and insecure, figured that doing so would make me seem "cooler," or at least more desirable to the girlies whom I'd help.
One in particular, Diana, sent my immature heart aflutter. She also lived in Fair Lawn, and would take the same bus home that I did, getting off two stops before I. In my inexperience, wide 11-year-old eyes, she was the Christina Milian of our class, a petite yet developmentally-curvy Latina with an addictive smile and just enough sass to give her a "bad girl" edge. Much to my frustration, though, I was more Nick Cannon in Underclassmen than lying-in-Mariah-Carey's-bed-smoking-a-zig-zag-after-laying-the-pipe Nick Cannon.
[A pic of Christina Milian isn't really needed here, but any chance to post a pic like this would be criminal to pass up. God, she's slammin']
I tried and I so willfully tried to win her over. In gym class, I'd challenge her to some one-on-one hoops and let her win, but just by a point or two, hoping this wouldn give the impression of not totally being the chump who lets the girl have the upper sports hand, but offers somewhat of a worthy opposition. One time I even dropped $4 on an all-Immature fanzine at 7-11 just so I could give it to her best friend Alana, who was a huge potential-groupie for the trio of pre-pubescent R&B balladeers (Batman, Romeo, and whatever the fuck the third dude's name was...who gives a shit, Immature sucked balls. Probably not even a "pause" needed her, either). Watching her face as Alana ran over to show her what "nice guy Matt" had given her without warning, Diana cracked a sweet smile in my direction. I remember getting knobby-kneed at the sight, butterflies zooming around like fighter jets under attack in my stomach.
But for all my subtle efforts to make her mine, none ever seemed to work. You see, she was more smitten by a pal of mine, Kevin, who was my co-MVP on the basketball team every year (he was the John Stockton to my Karl Malone). He was much more suave and confident on his darkest day than I ever would be even on my fucking birthday. All the girls were sweating him harder than Urkel jocked Laura Winslow. Made me furious. But back then, at such a young age as it is in our older years, females are attracted to confidence and swag, neither of which I had much of in those awkward days. I was much chubbier then....well, not chubby, but just lacking any body tone or definition, and my hair was this excruciatingly-lame bowl cut (think Moe from the Three Stooges). What in the bloody double-fuck were my parents even thinking? There's some pictures from that era where my hair isn't even combed. Just flapping around to and fro, looking like a mane attraction at some stylistic sideshow. And this was while posing for pictures. Actual snapshots! WTF!
On one fateful, suddenly-balls-had-been-grown day, however, all of my prior misfires were put to the side. I saw my moment of truth, and clarity, at hand. See, Alana and I were pretty chummy. She seemed to genuinely think I was the bees-knees of her male classmates....yes, even back then I had girls who championed me hardcore, yet never showed any interets themselves in seizing the great-guy in front of their eyes. But knowing that she vouched for me, I did what any insecure and chickenshit young boy would do in the situation---asked her to find out whether Diana would ever go on a date with me for me, rather than I doing it myself. Such chump style, man. But that was I.
We're in the parking lot playground area, during God's little gift to all grade-school attendees worldwide, a little slice of heaven called "recess." I work up the nerve:
ME: "Hi Alana. I know this is like weird, but I really like Diana. She's really pretty, and I want to ask her to go see a movie with me. Do you think she ever would? You can be honest."
ALANA: "Awwww! I knew it! I always knew you liked Diana. If I were her, I totally would go out with you [Blogger's note: this was a total crock-of-shit lie, of course]."
ME: "Thanks. But do you think Diana would?"
ALANA: "I don't know. Why don't you ask her?"
ME: [Me, thinking to myself: "Because I'm a huge pussy concealing a coward."] "I don't know. I guess I kinda wanna know for sure before I ask her, you know?"
ALANA: "Gotcha. You know what? I'll ask her, see what she says."
ME: Really? Wow, that's so cool! Thanks, Alana."
Alana then proceeded to run over to where Diana was sitting, on the curb where the sidedoor of the school spilled out into the parking lot. Me? I was standing against the wall of the convent, watching from far enough where it wouldn't seem obvious. But what my eyes witnessed was akin to Jason Voorhees jamming a crimson-colored-liquid-soaked machete straight into my chest, and then twisting the blade counter-clockwise until it carved out a softball-sized hole in my upper-body-frame, and yanking the machete back toward his own body, resulting in a waterfall of blood seeping onto the surface, followed by my still-beating heart. And then there'd be Jason, adding insult to injury by stomping on the disattached heart with his workboot. Spllatt!!
After Alana was done whispering into Diana's left ear, Diana glanced over at me, and let out a hearty laugh, capped off by the nodding of her now-might-as-well-have-Devil's-horns-sticking-out head side to side. And then Alana looked over in my direction with puppydog eyes, clearly signaling, "I'm so sorry, Matt."
The pain that coursed through my bod was unlike anything I'd ever experience before. I couldn't figure out what it was at the time, but looking back on that shitty afternoon, it was my first-ever breaking of heart. And man did it suck.
Needless to say, things were never back to co-existing normalcy between Diana and I. I acted all weird around her for the next two-and-a-half years at St. Catharine's. I actually super-randomly bumped into her a couple years back while on vacation in South Beach, her current homeland. It was one of those, "Holy shit, Matt/Diana??!!" moments. Recognizing each other wasn easy, being that we had innocently Myspaced messages back and forth, the generic "How have you been?" kind, accompanied by our page's picture folders. She still looked good, even more so like Christina Milian now that her thickness had hit just the right notes of shape. But aside from the mere physical Diana, she was much uglier to me than she must've been to my friends.
And that was because you never really get over your first real heartbreak, myself being no exception. The person responsible never really regains that aura of high-horse-seating you once placed he or she upon. And if that horse weren't metaphorical, even, you'd surely unload a full clip into its equestrian skull like some Mr. Ed-loathing, NRA-card-carrying game hunter. Or at least I would.
= Fuck you, Ed!
**ehhhh.......fuck it, why not:
"Azucar," indeed!!!! That means "hot," right???
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