Crush, crush, crush.

"When you hop on the love train, you are buying a damn ticket to heartbreak. Hell, you're buying a ticket to be run over by the damn thing. More often than not, you are not going to end up in Candyland."-Amber Oldham

I'm not very good at having a "crush". Before you say "What?! Like, omg, everyone is good at having a crush", you should just know that YOU ARE WRONG.

Horribly.

Completely.

Seriously.

WRONG.

Some people are really, really kinda awesome at the whole "crush game". And, apparently, there was a class? Maybe? In elementary? And I friggin' missed it.

Unbeknownst to MOI, a crush does not entail creating an entire alternate universe in your head where everything is hipster and wonderful and totally-Nicholas Sparks minus the inevitable death thing. No. Apparently, it's a little flirting and maybe a couple of emoticon texts. For example: "Hi :)", "XOXO :P", and, of course, the extra-special winky face that is usually just awkward when I attempt to integrate that in my repertoire.

So, to recap, I'm not good at crushes. Another fairly decent explanation as to my ineptitude could be the fact that my crushes are generally directed at three types of guys: The Douchebag, The Clearly-Unattainable Hottie, and, oh yeah, CELEBRITY.

Oh yes, so few people are quite as masterful at convincing themselves that John Krasinski is totally going to leave his beautiful, successful wife for me after our serendipitous encounter at a quaint coffee shop in SoHo. Not that I've thought about it or anything...

And then there's the Unattainable Hottie. And I'm not saying that to fish for a "you're so pretty" compliment because, frankly, duh. I know I'm hot. What I'm talking about is that guy that is seriously so hot it's like he rolls around in burning coals. It's like his face isn't even real! That guy. That's the one I fall for.

Finally, we come to my kryptonite. Douchebag. If there is a jerk in a 20-mile radius, I will sniff him out like a bloodhound, and claim him like Columbus "discovering" America. Which means I will drop some polio on you, skank. That heart breaker is MINE.

Are you beginning to see my point?

Friends say it's because I don't want to get hurt? I don't really count that as a valid argument because I'm not some kind of Twilight-obsessed masochist, and I'm pretty normal in the fact that I don't particularly enjoy having my heart stomped on. Doesn't feel good. Not one bit.

Really, I don't think my problem exists solely in the fact that I'm attracted to all the wrong men. No, I think it has more to do with the ugly, horrible awkwardness that inhabits my body to its core whenever I'm around a guy that I like. If I could paint a picture of what these fun little interactions looked like, I would make millions as the Tarantino of the art world. Weird and just scary. Like conversations about Serta mattresses and frozen dinners. Mmmhmm.

And then there's the obsession thing. And the minor stalking that I just can't seem to control. Yep. That ALL happens inside this sick little mind. I carried a burning torch for Justin Timberlake that seriously almost stood the test of time. I was convinced he was "The One" from about 5th grade through sophomore year. And, to be honest, he could still eat crackers in my bed.

So, there ya go. My dirty little secret. I can't crush. And if you are aware of some training classes, I'd be most appreciative.