I was five, seriously. I had just started Kindergarten. She had long, long hair and she enthralled me. Why, I did not know. I asked her to come play at my house, everyday, for months. She finally came. I was a big fan of the Three Stooges and thought it was only appropriate that I should kick her in the bottom after opening the door for her. It didn't last.

True love happened some twenty years later, after a few infatuations. It started on the terms that love wouldn't cloud what I (she) wanted. I was as naive to love as that last clause, because I fell head over heals for her. Many of you may know the depth. That of crying when making love, as if your entire being is in orgasm. I asked her to marry, she agreed, and in the same breath, swore me to secrecy... timing of the announcement of course. But, I soon realized there would be no announcement. She was well-to-do Scot Presbyterian. I was poor Irish Catholic, and never the twain shall meet. I can still recall the shriek of horror her Grandma let out when she found out my mother's maiden name was LeBlanc.

Oh well, there it is. We broke up, she got pregnant by some upstanding Pressy (rather shortly after, in my opion), got sent away to have the child and gave it up, returned to the fold, married a proper Acadian (hope it wasn't just to piss the crusty upper class off, although I wouldn't put it past her) and lived happily (I hope) ever after.

Me ? I'm still looking. Strike that... waiting... I'm too old to be looking.

HEY. Not EVERY storey is CUTSIE LOVEY DOVEY. But it's my storey.