While we were cruising around town the other day, Savannah piped up from the back seat. "Bobby from school likes me.""Oh, really? How can you tell Bobby likes you?" I mean, I didn't want her to go around thinking people like her just because they don't hit her, pull her hair, and call her "Ugly Butt."
"I can tell he likes me because he falls down whenever I look at him."
Ah. Yes, Bobby does indeed like Savannah. The sheer, overpowering force of her mere glance pulls at Bobby's auditory canal fluid like gravity from a flaming moon sweeping across the wild night sky. The horizon shudders, knees buckle, and balance fails. Yes I, too, remember the back-breaking power of first-grade love.
Actually, I didn't like girls in first grade, but they liked me. This girl named Tracy used to chase me around for a kiss all the time. But I didn't like her, and I can tell because her gaze couldn't send me flying like a pimp-slapped midget. I forgot her last name, or else I'd look her up on Facebook and play Mafia Wars with her. She wore a baby blue coat and smelled like Planter's peanuts all the time. That made me kind of want to kiss her, but not like if she'd smelled like, say, Sunny D. Or purple stuff.