He was energetic and fun and hilarious and wrote absurd stories about Britney Spears’ mental breakdown, inspired by Perez Hilton, a precursor to Hipster Runoff for him. When he moved to my town in grade 10, we quickly became best friends. Alan and I sat beside each other in the computer lab and laughed at ‘I Can Haz Cheeseburger’ memes. I even wrote an extended metaphor about Alan, comparing him to a wild fire. We were both total pop-culture freaks and fashion divas. Our “friends” made fun of our friendship because I was a girl and he was a boy and it seemed like the natural thing to do? On our class trip to Vancouver, I sat next to him on the bus and our friends hung over the back of their seats, taking pictures of us and giggling.
I never thought he was gay. I don’t think it occured to me. Truthfully, I don’t think I even cared. But I did decided to write him a note, professing my undying CRUSH. I was very nervous about it, but I also thought #YOLO, except this was before YOLO was a thing, so I probably thought something like “I could die tomorrow!” I remember giving him the note while we were walking home from school with our friend Pat, and then quickly running away.
I wanted this to be like the TV shows. I wanted him to like me too, though I hadn’t thought about what might come after that.
We didn’t even talk about the note? I don’t remember talking about anything serious with Alan, actually. We were just total jokesters who flipped through Cosmo magazine at the public library, disturbing everyone trying to read with our profuse giggles.
The next year he moved away to Switzerland and I moved to Washington, D.C. We remained friends, and he later ‘came out’ to me via a Facebook message.
I had actually forgotten the whole ordeal, perhaps blocking it from my memory, until Alan reminded me about it last year. We remain BFFs, and now I find the whole thing absolutely hilarious.
My take home message is this: telling your crush that you like them doesn’t have to be a big deal! You can totally become better friends because of it! So do what feels right, and don’t ever regret it, I sure don’t.
(I Love you, Alan!)
Kellie, Hannah and I were cray lil’ misfit 15-years-old-but-look-11-years-old friends who met during a menacing tour of the school gym. We spent our days skipping school to watch episodes of Hannah Montana or running down sand dunes behind a recent suburb development. I had my first experiences watching indie movies (Garden State) and diva-fashion television (Seks and the City); I believe both experiences were had whilst eating that really cheap tub ice cream you can get at Superstore for 5 dollars. I had just moved to town after living in Ottawa and was starting to experiment … with vintage clothing! Until then my sartorial choices consisted mainly of sale items from the junior section of Old Navy. That store made me feel like I was a real lyfe “American Boy” (via 4th of July mentalitiez). Equipped with my first pair of skinny jeans and an inkling that I was more into Cory than Topanga.
One day I found myself walking home from school one day on the spiraling suburb streets with Kellie and Pat. Our casual chitchat abruptly ended when we approached Kellie’s house and she stared into my eyes (**r0mAnTiC**).
In my head I was all, “uh oh I like boys NAWT girls” but when she gave me this folded up paper, squealed “mmmgottago!!,” and sprinted through her front doors, I was speechless. I opened the paper and read her crush confession. The words she had written seemed like she also knew I wasn’t into girls, having a sort of defeatist attitude towards the prospect of our potential love story.
Pat, a strong silent sk8er type, said in his much lower voice, “aw dude that sucks,” and we continued on, in silence at first, but then reopened conversation to talk about school.
I was dreading going to school the next day since I had NO idea what to say. I definitely wasn’t ready to come out the closet (ok can we pause righ now to talk about what a terrible phrase that is !! like it’s some sort of grand event like that Cotillion on the OC, except you’re not sure if, once having walked down the staircase in your white Vera Wang/virginity portraying dress, people will applaud your subsequent dance or call you a faggot?). ‘Luckily’ Kellie and I acted as if the event had never happened, although it seemed to me as if we were in a way communicating non-verbally that we understood each other.