When I was 9, I began documenting my crush on the spiky-haired boy from my homeroom. “Rocco is cute. I want to sex him,” I’d written in my holographic Lisa Frank notebook, not fully grasping what sex even meant. In my PG-rated world, sex was just kissing. It was two people fusing at the lips until someone got bored and went to unload the dishwasher. From that point on, I was what my friends referred to as “boy crazy,” which meant I lost all common sense the moment someone with a skateboard and