Once there was a girl who liked a boy in her neighborhood. She felt inadequate; she felt like any pre-teen in her awkward, budding sexuality, praying for invisibility with a contradictory hope for special recognition. 
One day, while stepping off the school bus onto the block she shared with him, he passed her a crumpled piece of college-ruled loose leaf. The moments between the passing of the note seemed ethereal. Why did her give her something of his? Was it a love note? Had he suddenly realized the destiny of their potential love? Is this her dream materialized? His smile matched hers. It was clear he also shared some measure of joy. With so many questions, so many unknowns that churned the anxieties within her, she rushed home with an excitement she knew would transcend time.

The girl shoved her house key in its lock, ran to her room, and slammed the door with unintentional aggression. She slid down its backside and sat on the carpet of her bedroom. The note rested on her thighs. She stared with reverence, nestling her emotions, and, unlike unwrapping some material desire on Christmas morning or a birthday, she carefully peeled it open; she hoped to preserve it with the same integrity with which it was given. Before she died of anticipation, she confronted her fantasies. She finally opened the note. Its contents displayed themselves to the world, to her world; it was a dog’s turd.

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