El Salvador is for lovers. And pupusas. And gangbangers. And hairy little fruits with sweet, rubbery skin around the pit that is kind of hard to scrape off with your teeth. But it would be unwieldy to put that on a t-shirt I guess.
A couple weeks ago we paid a visit to the botanical gardens near our house. There were a lot of lovers there. Every gazebo and bench by the pond contained a nuzzling, cuddling, whispering, giggling couple. In the words of my 12 year-old daughter, "Ew."
We've all been there once though. Or twice. Perhaps thrice. Or eleven-ice. Once, I found out this cute girl in my geometry class kind of liked me. Probably it was because of my Eddie Vedder-esque corduroy jacket and my satisfactory presentation on how geometric principles power CD players (the laser hits the disc at a 90 degree angle, aaaaaaand... that's about all the geometry involved). I talked to her at the dance after the homecoming game. I think we had lost the game, a reasonable assumption since we lost most games, so we were all in sort of a bad mood. The DJ played "Whoomp! There It Is." I probably should've left, because, ugh, that song. But she was in her cheerleading outfit, and I was in my Eddie Vedder-esque corduroy jacket, because I don't think I ever didn't wear it, because why would you stop trying to look like Eddie Vedder (who I don't think actually wore corduroy jackets)? Love was in the air. Or, more accurately, stupid music and bad judgment was in the air.
So me and cheerleader girl dated a little bit. She worked at a pizza place at the mall. I'd go down on Saturday afternoons and wait for her to take her break, and then we'd sit there and not really have anything to talk about. Then she dumped me a couple weeks later.
That actually turned out to be a pretty dumb story that wasn't really about love, or even like. My bad. I guess Eddie Vedder-esque corduroy jackets aren't for lovers after all.