Notes From Girls #1

I like to keep a box of old letters, greeting cards, concert tickets, receipts, and other random memory markers. My most prized possession in this box of junk is a collection of notes from various girls, dating back to high school. Most of them are from the days before texting was mainstream, when handwritten ink on crinkled paper was the best form of flirting if you didn't have the nerves for a face to face talk. I just love handwritten notes, and plan on posting more in the future.

This one is from a girl I'll call Sally. My best friend Randy knew her from one of his classes and suggested I talk to her. It was my junior year of high school about a month before Prom, and I didn't have a date yet, due to the fact that I wanted the best looking girls in school, but never had the balls to talk to them. Randy suggested Sally knowing she was a step down from my usual crush, and might actually be interested. I refused at first, mainly because I was ridiculously picky for a short shy kid (I was 5 foot 5 inches tall until a growth spurt the next year). As another week went by without a date for Prom, I finally gave in and decided to give her a chance, as desperate times call for desperate measures. I made contact via a handwritten note, taking painstaking measures to craft a piece of flawless literature even my joyless English teacher, Mrs. Erskine, would melt over. Although I can't remember what I wrote, I know it was perfect. This is her response:





We didn't go to Prom together.

Aching Nostalgia

I can't sleep. My mind is flooded with past memories. I've somehow learned everything and nothing since the year 1998. It's the memories of that year, specifically, that haunt me tonight, for whether they were good times or bad, it's a time I'll never see again. Virginia is gone. My childhood friends Richie, Andy, and Eddie are gone. My innocence is gone. 1998 is the year I learned there's more to sex than making babies. It's this year I learned what beer tastes like, then what it tastes like mixed with Kool-Aid. It's this year I learned what it felt like to go trick or treating the last time, to realize you won't be a professional athlete when you grow up, and how special a girl's company can be. That year was full of real burden, real learning, and real shame. I didn't even know what it meant to be cool at that point, and I couldn't even pretend otherwise. I was a 5 foot 3 inch, out of shape, baby-faced late bloomer who played Parks and Rec basketball and averaged 6 points a game. I had no idea where a woman urinated from, besides that it was down "there" somewhere. I thought "evil" things like drugs or alcohol would kill me almost instantaneously. I never asserted myself or spoke loud enough to be heard. That was me in 1998, the 15 year-old Justin Blake Crum; the one who really knew what it meant to be alive, and the one I look up to now. I wish I felt as alive as he did.