![]() ![]() I felt like having sex on prom night was something normal kids would do. Given the drinking, prescription drug use and daily acts of familial terrorism at my house, I clung to my first real, serious boyfriend like a life raft. What’s more, his mother actually baked casseroles for dinner and grounded him when he flunked AP calculus tests! That is to say they were so blissfully, utterly normal. I had just tanked my grades in Algebra II ditching class with him. I had just lost my virginity on his bedroom floor while listening to Dave Matthews Band. I had just delivered a bouquet of roses to his class on Valentine’s Day. Still, I wanted to go on as if none of this had happened. ![]() Oh, the acute heartbreak of first love: I scribbled Ben Harper lyrics - “please bleed so I know that you are real, so I know that you can feel the damage you have done” - on my bedroom wall and devoted pages and pages to this fresh wound in my journal. Like the love fool that I was, I believed him - until his best friend tattled on him over Instant Messenger. Just a couple of weeks prior he had made out with another girl and told me the purple marks on his neck came from soccer. ![]() I shouldn’t even have gone to prom with Bryan. ![]()
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