My teachers used to force us to exchange love notes.

We were given lists of everyone in class and made to spend money on themed boxes of cards which had these uncomfortable personal sayings.

Be mine. Someone likes you. You're so pretty. I love you so much.

The idea was to be anonymous in our delivery, but when 25 kids and they're all stumbling over each other in a room meant to handle 15, it's not exactly a discreet process.

Some kids went home with lollipops, expertly fashioned the cards.

And a few, enthusiastic parents made goody bags

with pez dispensers and colored paper, sacrifices to the elite of our class.

One kid never got anything.

Despite the lists and the rules against discrimination and the fact that she was always nice to everyone,

was always one desk left horribly, obviously bare.

I always told myself I didn't mind.

That was elementary school,

when the ultimate display of affection

was pushing each other on the swings,

and at some point down the line, people discovered how to order boutiques of roses,

and perfected the art of making out and full view and way of everyone except the teachers.

I guess cards are sort of obsolete.

People get other things, mostly fluffy, button-eyed things with bows, like nooses

around their necks.

The fact that those things never used to make it to me is my own fault, and I know that.

I know I should be more outgoing, or prettier, or just better.

But it's more comforting to blame everyone else instead.

...