You ride a tattered scooter. You wear clothes that are either too baggy or too tight. You won’t shave. You flirt with Marxism. You hate capitalism. You believe you’re misunderstood. You’re mad at mom and dad because you think they don’t get you. No one gets you, and you know no one gets you, but something about them not getting you frustrates you greatly. You’re always fighting. They have dreams. You have dreams. And as you grow older you have stumbled upon that half-awkward, wholly painful realization that your dreams might differ from their dreams. You think you’re hopelessly lost, but the romance of that listlessness hasn’t set in. You like Pink Floyd and Metallica, until a girl with kaleidoscope eyes sits frightfully close to you and shares one of her two earbuds and forces you to listen to Nada Surf. Your world changes. As the lyrics of a song that you feel like you’ve known for a lifetime and many lifetimes envelop you, your world certifiably changes. The sun sets. You share furtive glances with one another. There is an ineffable desire, a desire that you haven’t yet the vocabulary for, to hold her hand. You slightly shamefully extend your pinkie, or let it linger on your walk back home, with her by your side. And the rest becomes history.