Okay, well Teenage Tangent time.
Basically, I need to rant about infatuations and being a teenager who has them, as most teenagers do, and there are multiple spawn-off problems of this one central problem, so .. yeah. Basically, 14 is one of the worst ages I can think of, besides 100, or two. Or 39. It's that time when you're poised awkwardly on the threshold of adolescence, but you still have a foot firmly, and reluctantly, anchored in those last horrible throes of childhood. Everyone, EVERYONE is horrible at age 14. I'm horrible, my classmates are horrible, my friends are horrible. We're all just horrible. Compounding the pain of being 14 is that all 14-year-olds, unless they've unlocked a secret way of erasing emotion that I would love to hear, develop infatuations. And infatuations, invariably, suck desperately. Don't deny it. You know they do -- ESPECIALLY for nerds (well, generally ) because, as a general rule, none of us know anything about being a kid. Oh, sure, we know all about advanced mathematics, and English literature, and mythology and world history, and psychology and linguistics and the various cultures and politics of the world but we know NOTHING about being teenagers. At least not the nerds I know. We're all exceptionally awkward socially, even more so than our non-nerd brethren and sistren in puberty, and we know nothing of this huge, pulsating mass of evil that's called "dating." Though we'd like to. Oh, we'd love to. Generally. Mostly, we foster forbidden and impossible infatuations and pretend we can't commute what these strange PDA-mongerers are saying about "emotions" and "love" and "desire" and "all of that." Oh, we can. And sometimes I think that the severe, intense pain of unrequited love is increased tenfold in people who don't have a prayer. Oh, damn Cupid and his malicious arrows of desire.
So, essentially, I have an infatuation (if you hadn't picked that up, I'd think you were a person of dubious intelligence) and it's a sophomore who is in two of my A-day classes. And it's rather...unpleasant. It's unfun. It really is.