Yes, the rumors are true. I, Kent Matthew McDonald, proud son of Mark and Judy McDonald, can confirm that I do, indeed, have a crush! (I need you to imagine me saying this through gritted teeth.)
Having a crush is unpleasant. I do not recommend it. I suggest everyone lives a life free of “crushes” because they are crush-ing. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat, I can’t think, I can’t breathe! I can only “crush” — whatever the heck that means.
Even writing this now, my lips are pursed in the most annoying smile. I’m giggly all the time. I spend more time daydreaming about my crush than I do looking into reflective surfaces — which for a proud narcissist like me is majorly disappointing. It’s almost as if through this process of having a crush I am maturing into a more adult human being who no longer situates themself at the center of the universe. Could it be that I no longer care only about me? The horror!
Speaking of horror, people describe me as “glowing” as if I’m pregnant. I am not pregnant. I do not want to be pregnant. I want to be miserable and alone.
And yet, my body resists. The butterflies keep fluttering in my stomach. My cheeks persistently blush. My heart swells with joy. My spirit is encapsulated by the annoyingly honeyed lyrics of Justin Timberlake: “I can’t stop the feeling!” (I need you to imagine me groaning because I’m so upset with myself for referencing a song on the Trolls: Original Motion Picture soundtrack.)
I am so much better than this! Or maybe I’m not better than this at all. Would I be lucky to be with you? Or would you be lucky to be with me? I am a walking contradiction, simultaneously wanting everyone and no one to ask me about this crush. I relish in telling people about these exciting “feelings” but immediately regret it when I do. Up is down. Left is Right. Day is night. This topsy-turvy, heavenly inferno has consumed my every waking moment.
I am not this kind of boy. I am not supposed to fall so easily. I am Fort Knox. Intimidatingly impenetrable. A fortress of iron. But this iron appears to be melting. Worst of all, I’m fanning the flames, coaxing this glass castle to shatter into a million pieces.
Why I am doing this to myself? It’s because all of this shame, despair and narcissistic dread is an Oscar-worthy performance. A distraction from what I’m really feeling. Beneath it all is something even more devastatingly honest and human: fear.
I am afraid. I am afraid of so many things — climate change, the GOP, cockroaches living in my kitchen — but most of all, I am afraid of how much I like you. So that is why I spent 500 words complaining about it. Because it is actually the nicest thing to have happened to me since I arrived on this campus nearly four years ago.
