I met my high school boyfriend as a cloud of smoke cleared around six 14 year olds and the sound of coughing echoed around my dad's kitchen. I am still unclear about many things that occured that afternoon, but one thing I would put my life on: nobody knew how to use a bong. He was the only boy who had ever talked to me, or any of my friends, so naturally, we all fell in love with him. When he "picked" me, my friends instantly despised me, and willingly I let them gossip and brood behind my back because all I wanted was for him to sit next to me in media arts class. I also deeply wanted all the perks I'd heard having a high school boyfriend came with. Like changing your facebook status to “in a relationship”, duh. Also he lived across the street from the school and he had nice hair and he smelled like Axe forest, but that's besides the point. We dated for three amazing years, and everyone really did think we were some greek goldy power couple, who would probably have 4 gorgeous children with shocking bone structure, that would all be 6 feet tall, named Donna, Joel, Zack and Molly (not that I had spent countless restless nights deciding what would sound best with my last name, or anything). God, chill please. And then that thing that happens to all perfect relationships happened: you start seeing him as a nice uncle rather than a shirtless Channing Tatum, drenched in tanning oil, riding bareback across a barren desert, racing to save you from your father who's probably forcing you to marry the local dungweed fishmonger’s son, who smells like armpit. Whoops. Got carried away there, let me go dry my panties.

Okay. Anyways, at some point after he's picked your helpless self up from your desperate situation, and you really are riding behind him, bareback, on that exquisite stallion, well, that's when your bum really starts to hurt from all the bareback. And then, quite slowly, all that gorgeous desert sand starts getting in your eyes and ruining all your expensive makeup you bought from Sephora on your moms credit card. I mean, the final straw is really when the scorching glare of the sun starts making his back sweat and it gets on that perfect manicure you've spent days waiting for to dry instead of finishing your paper on how "man is born free, but everywhere he's in chains'', or some crap, on. And then, a vicious little thought creeps into the very back of your head. At first it’s so vile you barely entertain it. But then, he starts making weird 4chan references and you get really fucking bored. And as he’s scrolling through distored.v1memes, and you're probably mustering up a disturbingly believable fake laugh at another 56 year old white man saying the “N” word, a little bead of sweat trickles down your nose. But this time, it doesn't smell like Axe forest. No, in fact, quite surprisingly, it smells like that goddamn fishmonger’s son.

This is where the trouble begins. Suddenly, Channing Tatum isn't riding the horse anymore. Slowly, his chiseled V-line starts to shrivel away, and his luminous tan turns shrek green. And then, right before your eyes, his razor sharp jawline you spent hours drooling over, turns towards you, but this time you’re definitely not looking at Channing Tatum. No. Mike Myers is staring down your eyes, like a double barreled shotgun, and he wants a kissie-poo.

Honestly, fish is a wonderful food. If it wasn’t so delicious why would Jesus have turned all those loaves of bread into fish for all those starving Jews. Wait. I think that's what happened, don't quote me. I mean, really, fish does not get enough credit. You can eat those suckers fresh out of the water, raw, and you won’t even get Ebola. I could definitely live with the smell if I could eat ceviche every night. Also that fishmonger’s son wasn’t even that bad. He’d probably pick me up in some spicy wooden caravan, not this clunky white stallion, which, frankly, is last season and giving me a massive wedgie. He’s 5’10, so if I don't wear heels in public we could definitely still make Pippa gag. Hmmm...As for the names of our children, I’ll need to take a totally different approach---

“Mmmmmm, kissie bear, Gimme a smootchie-poo ”

Huh? What? Oh right, Mike Myers still wants a kiss. Fuck. “Baby, I really want to… but...ummm.. the problem is..”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I’m blanking. Wait! I know…

“ Honey! I’ve got the worst period cramps of my life, it feels like a family of large armadillos are both nesting in my uterus and my vagina looks like the elevator doors in the shining and Jack Nicholson might be in there too running around screeching RED RUM with a pickaxe and I might have a UTI and a yeast infection as well” Sigh. “Can we please run back and get a tampon?” I say batting my eyelashes. Phew. That one always works.