Ira Glass

I wanted to think it was the real me.

And the truth of it was that the real, real me was getting screamed at and having his desk spilled on the ground each day.

There's a way you can love a girl in grade six that you'll never have again.

There's something about kids, or at least the way I was as a kid, that is purely romantic, in the truest love-sonneteering sense of the word.

Only a year or two later, my theories on the ways of love had changed drastically.

By seventh grade, I had some spin-the-bottle sessions under my belt, and I had concluded that instead of dreaming about a true love I couldn't have, I should get a little bit more pragmatic about the whole thing.

One night,

After deciding I wanted to have a real girlfriend, I called up identical twin sisters I liked, Darlene and Elizabeth.

Darlene answered.

I told her that I liked her and asked her if she'd like to officially go out with me.

She kindly told me that she only liked me as a friend, but she was flattered.

No problem, I said.

Is Elizabeth home?

She passed me over to her twin, who I made the same offer to, and Elizabeth said, sure.

And that was it.

They're identical twins.

What's the difference, I figured.

We went up for two whole months.

It was great.

Howard Chakowitz, a.k.a.