  I really love boys. I know, as a teenage girl in Suburban America, I am suppose to like boys. In fact, I’m supposed to be “boy crazy”. I am supposed to spend hours doing my hair and makeup, hoping that The Boy (undoubtedly a tall quarterback with a really nice car) will notice me. But my love for boys is bred from something deeper than teen melodramas or magazine quizzes. Every one, strong-jawed, angular faces, wide shoulders, tall frame, dark eyes, every one makes me want to know them.
I’m not physically attracted to every boy I see, but I’m certainly interested. I want to know their story. Are they feminists? Chauvinist? Do they favor contemporary values of older ones? Are they politically minded (while we’re at is, sub-question; state’s rights, yah or nay? ) And this stirring of excitement and wonder is on a daily, regular basis. It’s so routine that I can’t treat any male, aged 16-25, with any less enthusiasm. Perhaps the only thing more interesting than their glorious bodies and voices (with varying degrees of depth), are their flaws. A faint stutter, awkward posture, messy hair; it’s so beautiful and sweet and sugar coated that I might as well be in a Judy Blume novel where every boy is The Boy.
With all of this significance placed on those of the opposite gender, I can’t help but hate myself a little. I mean, this is the girl who subscribes not only to Bust but also to Bitch —oh how their editors and columnists would cringe to know how I value boys, boys, boys! Under the disguise of modern-minded angsty pseudo-hipster, I am fucking June Cleaver. What do I want more than anything else in the world?
No, I don’t spend my time day dreaming about world peace or animal liberation or legalized gay marriage, I spend my time thinking about having a husband, a little home, and fucking kids. Oh, and that’s only the tip of the iceberg. I think about the wedding (the accent color will be either pale green or burnt yellow, I haven’t made up my mind just yet), the home, the integration of my husband’s record collection with mine.
I think about having a study were we can drink tea and share our love of literature. Children’s names, including middle, have been planed (Eleanor and Gideon, thank you very much. ) I haven’t even become this way; I’ve always been this way. For ever sincere dream of extreme hipness, for every imagined apartment in Manhattan, for every flat in London, every book deal, there is still the greater dream of domestication and motherhood. It’s really quite gross. Affectionately… Anna, a disgrace to feminists the world over 
