An odd thing happened to me last night. I was lying in bed about to fall asleep, when a thought occurred to me.

I thought that, out of all the billions of people in the world, there must be at least one person out there who was, at that very moment, falling in love for the first time. Or, maybe there was more than one person. I couldn’t know for sure.

With all the uncertainty in the world today, I am no longer comfortable making any permanent decisions about which applications my smartphone will automatically use to open certain files or links.

When I was in the fourth grade, I became obsessed with lizards. Anoles, geckos, skinks, iguanas, and even Komodo dragons captured my attention. On the outside, I looked like the other little girls with my blonde pigtails and Disney Princess lunch box. On the inside, I had a reptile obsession. While other kids my age read chapter books and played soccer, I checked out every reptile book in my elementary school library and memorized hundreds of fun facts about lizards.

I would have liked to be born a very dramatic, very unnecessarily serious human being in Victorian England, but have instead found myself in the 21st century, which is so devoid of castles through which I can run screaming and moors onto which I may throw myself as I cry. Modern America doesn’t allow for histrionics, so I have instead crafted a life for myself that is very mundane and stoic and not at all theatrical or hokey.

I’m a 34FF cup (or more) with an A cup personality. You won’t find me leaning over tables revealing where my tan line ends. You won’t catch me in skin tight sweaters or low-cut halters. You’ll never find me lounging by the pool without my t-shirt. In my fantasies, I’m an artsy, dramatic figure, a sleek line dressed in black from head to toe, my hair pulled back in a pony-tail, my back bent over a 1960 typewriter. Tiny, perky breasts emerge from this fantasy silhouette. At times, I have almost accomplished that svelte figure, but two large obstacles always obstructed my way.