The Sad, Demented Love Life of Barb

**UPDATE!** Fairly Long. Don't read if you don't care, homeslice.
          I was busting my hump shelving books at the library today, when a thought occured to me: maybe this article wouldn't be so disturbing if I put my current love-life in the proper context. Despite all appearances, I didn't start all my fucked-up fantasizing as a result of pure adolescent sexual frustration. Oh no. This has been a life-long affliction.
          It all started back in this shitty little apartment complex behind the local Blockbuster, a neighborhood I affectionately refer to as the "Brighton Ghetto". Drug dealers roamed about the carports. Miscreant teenagers flashed their privates at little girls. And absolutely everyone was poor. Including me and my posse.
          Because we were all poor, there was really nothing to do. We stole furniture out of dumpsters. We rolled around in old cardboard boxes. Once we found a maggoty mattress and used it as a trampoline, until some deliquents came and had sex on it and set it on fire. Another time we found an abandoned shopping cart behind one of the apartment buildings. I got so excited I nearly crapped my pants.
          If all this seems kind of depressing, well, that's 'cause it is. Needless to say, we all longed for some sort of escape. Eventually, we fulfilled that desire by fabricating demented alternate lives (sound familiar?). Actually, let me rephrase: the first fake love life I ever had wasn't so much demented as it was...gay. Really, REALLY gay.
          It's humiliating for me to admit this. But for some damn reason, I had a thing for Leonardo DiCaprio. I'm serious, I thought he was just about the hottest shit I'd ever seen. The only problem is, my friend Candace liked him too. Many elementary-school-style bitch-fights ensued.
          Neither of us wanted to give him up, no sirree, so by and by we came to an impasse. Obviously, a compromise was needed. Unfortunately, the compromise we came up with was completely nonsensical and retarded. We decided to create two Leonardo DiCaprios. One for me and one for her. Yeah. There's a reason why I don't tell too many people this story.
          Surprisingly, that didn't halt the arguments. We then began arguing non-stop about who had the better Leo. Her Leo, Candace claimed, was romantic, sweet, and great in bed. My Leo, I countered, bought me a really slammin' couch with flowers on it. We'd get so pissed off sometimes during these debates that we'd actually stop talking to each other for hours on end.
          Candace ended up winning, in case you're curious. After a while I got sick of my Leo and turned him into a total jackass with no spine and a small penis. A few weeks later, I "dumped" him. I wish it had all ended there, but alas, no. It gets worse. I simply couldn't be without a guy; it was unthinkable. So who did I turn to?
          Well, for the answer to that, we must turn a nostalgic eye on that beloved eighties sitcom, Growing Pains. In the later seasons, the writers were getting freaking desperate and decided to introduce a lovable orphan named Luke as a ratings booster. "Oh no...," you're thinking. Oh yes. I'm really cleaning out my closet today, eh folks?
          I'm not sure how it would have worked, looking back. I mean, what, would we make sweet sweet love in that storage closet he lived in?! Oh baby oh baby. Anyways, he only lasted a few months, then I had him die in a gutter somewhere.
          Well, now I was in some pretty deep shit. I was really only a wannabe teeny-bopper; I wasn't actually familiar with any teen idols besides, of course, good ole Leo. So I didn't know where to turn next for my fake-lovin'. Luckily, a fat, sex-crazed girl named Bobbi had the answer.
          Bobbi had posters of "hot guys" all over her room. As soon as I could weasel my way into her house, I scoured said room for a potential lover. Actually, I think I ended up doing an "eenie meenie minie mo" or something. Whatever. Anywho, I ended up with Devon Sawa.
          For some reason, I made Devon really, really obnoxious. Imagine the dumbest, loudest guy at your school. Now multiply that by seven gazillion. That was Devon. He hung around for at least two years, mostly because I just couldn't think of anyone else. When I tired of him, I killed him, just like the others. Devon died, hilariously enough, of a penile infection caused by eating tainted mini-muffins. I was a sick kid.
          By that time, I was in seventh grade, and I had moved on to anime characters. Darien, Trunks, Ryoga, etc. For some reason, that period of my fake love-life wasn't as funny, because I didn't get to invent those characters personalities. Although I think I made Trunks have sex with his best friend one time or something. Like I said, I was a sick kid.
          In high school, I moved back into the realm of fucked-up-osity, and you know the rest of the story. Wow, this addenum was rather long. If you made it this far, congrats! You're one deranged individual. Call me some time. You, me, and Kyle will hang. Barb out.

UPDATE: Hot for Teacher
There's only a five year age difference, damn it! >_<

          I have exciting news, and I wanted you all to be the first to know. Your old pal Barb here is...brace yourself...engaged! The thing is, he sort of doesn't know yet. And if he did, he'd probably run far, far away.
          You see, he's the new student band director. We'll just call him Monsieur Ripple.
      Now, I know it's easy for people to get all judgmental about this sort of thing. It's a violation of the student-teacher relationship, they might say. Well, my reply to that is as follows: Fuck you, commies! Who are you to question my love? Yes, he is 22, and yes, his last name does rhyme with "nipple", but where true love exists, such obstacles mean nothing!
          I first suspected that we were meant to be when I heard him singing a snatchet of "Uptown Girl" during Jazz Band. My love only grew when he dropped an "S-bomb" during a sectional. It blossomed further when he and I had an actual conversation for a whole two minutes (about Russian literature, if you want to know). It turned to full blown infatuation when he asked me, in a rather insecure manner, if I thought he conducted like a "queen". I started planning our wedding about a week ago. All I have to do now is tell him.
          Telling him is gonna be the hard part. My best case scenario is as follows: I approach him after a sectional brimming with sexual tension and profess my undying love. He professes his love in return, and before you can say "sweet statutory", we're down by the fire with a can of whipped cream.
          Okay, so there are a couple of problems in that plan: 1) He totally has a girlfriend, unless that hot blonde thing I saw him with at the football game was his sister or something; 2) My friend Reese told him I think he conducts like a queen (which I DON'T); and 3) Everyone keeps saying he has something going on with the head band director, who is definitely married, has a kid, is like 50, and has a really weird mustache. If I can just figure out a way to get the girlfriend and the band director out of the way, I should be golden.
          What do you guys think? Is it possible for this relationship to work out? Or should I just go back to my imaginary husband, Kyle? Drop me a line. I'm waiting to hear your advice. Barb out.

DISCLAIMER: I know how wrong this is. For those of you who don't understand tongue-in-cheek humor, it was a JOKE! Don't freak out and think I'm a pervert. Even though I am.

UPDATE: Infatuation isn't healthy...but it sure is fun!
Further tales of Mr. Ripple, aka "Sex in a Sweater Vest"