When I was 16-years-old, I thought my friend Jimmy hung the moon. And for his 18th birthday, I wrote him a poem. A sappy, rhyming poem full of adolescent angst, written on a folded piece of notebook paper, that I tossed at him after Saturday detention.
Jimmy framed the poem and has been known to leave it in plain view. Several times he's introduced me to people who have read it already. Apparently, somewhere in Jimmy's house, my 16-year-old heart is laid bare. He has a souvenir of the melodramatic and burdensome love someone had for him when he was a sweet kid, and I have the humiliation.
You suck Jimmy. Oh, and I love you and Happy Birthday.