I have a crush on a boy. It’s a small crush. Small or large, crushes are always top rated in my collective of troublesome things in which to meddle. Usually, at least the last couple of years, I’ve had crushes that have intensified because of the risks, that is to say…I had crushes on sparkly-eyed trouble-making boys when I shouldn’t be throwing a glance in their direction. This range of boys on which to crush can be put into perspective when gauging the level of crushicity according to point of origin.

A foreign country. Foreign country derived crushes are a good starting point because of the primal and obvious crush communication that two people share in the absence of a common language. While visiting Germany, I met a boy named Ulf.. Ulf was older and wiser, so it seemed. Age protocol appeared to have melted like our Haagen Daz while huddling on the high dive or blending with the cigarette smoke of Ulf’s private Black Forest campus disco-tech. A couple back flips and a handlebar ride later, and there is an established mutual crush between a girl who can’t speak German and a boy who refuses to speak English. Good deal right? Also a good deal is if you benefit from living nearby

The wakeboard camp. If ever there were a place that bred beautiful bodied boys that are dying to show off, it would have to be your friendly small-town competitive wakeboarding school. To establish one crush or many at this loaded lair of love, you must first scout out your options five acres away with a pair of binoculars while riding the lawnmower in ovals for five of those acres listening to ‘Where My Girl’s At.” This intense ritual will prepare you for the rapid realization that you are in fact clearly in sight and best try to make friends on the Fourth of July later that night instead. The following day one may dismount the mower and step into a world full of hot tubs and bunk beds you never even imagined only 2.5 acres away from your very own unpopulated property. What a joyous discovery that was. Like Stussy T-shirts. And Reefs.
Retaining these rebel rough riders for my own personal crush(es) was a different matter. They tended to change from week to week and then sport was a sloppy because there were too many emus to feed, so for a more consistent type of lonely lovesick fancies, try

The Internet. All this really takes is a single sentence. Watch yourself type it. Watch yourself refine it. One look. What a face! What sass! Which soon becomes a lurk. Which soon becomes a hiptop! mobile that causes you to shut out real life entirely and send you over the edge into a blue-hazed life of windows and buttons that aren’t actually windows or buttons. They’re only called that so old people will have reference.
Anyways.
If your imagination is considered up to par, or you desire to let it stretch it’s legs a little bit, then the internet is a nice retreat because sometimes, tangible life is a bit murky anyway. That’s not to say that the person on the other end of the interweb box isn’t a real legitimate baby Jesus, it’s just that you have to remember, you are not a flaxen haired topless mermaid from the shimmering waters of Beirut. You’re a girl who dives through the barbwire. Crushing on the internet is fun, but you realize you end up crushing on the best version someone can throw out there of themselves. Shady. (I have no problem affecting guilt of such surreptitious activities.) And you have to explain your legs to people after everything is over. Video internetting doesn’t count. Everyone’s skin has an ethereal, unnatural seductive glow. Your grandma’s even does. Video doesn’t count.

So go to church!

A Church...or church community/group/meeting/study is excellent for developing crushes especially for those that might fantasize about having eternal vows, undying devotion and twue love. For the real romantics out in the world, the participial staple is the praise and worship band. If you’re not in it, then you’ll be darned if you’re not in the front row locking eyes with a greenie brown-eyed guitar player for the next six months. Heaven help you, in fact. You’ll be pregnant in a year.
Some people get scared of those things. Those things are serious. You might as well admit you’re being silly (and by you I definitely mean me) and accept that crushing is about the entertainment you can provide within the comforts of your own mind. This said you might as well shoot for the impossible and go with the unrequited crush. For that there’s

Adorama. Located on West 18th street or something, Adorama is a store filled with three legged camera holding sticks and mesh-ed photog-velcro-vests all supplied by Williamsburg’s greater population of Hasidic Jews. Don’t believe the stigma about Jewish individuals being stingy. (In fact, don’t believe any stigmas about anyone you freakin racist.) They certainly are not. I have three boxes of fee-free Astia to prove this (over many visits of course) all supplied by the merriest, curliest, rabble-rousing Jew one could meet. And the name: Ziggy. He will inform you that he loves Florida every visit; it’s indeed his favorite place. He wants a motorcycle, a long over-due trip to Israel and he doesn’t give a shit about the snow. Suffice to say I love going into Adorama. Despite the encouragement of your spicy-ass friends, settling for rejection due to your Protestant background is a risk I’m rather comfortable not taking. This does not however, rule out a strictly professional attempt at a very important portrait session for your study on the demographics of photography personnel. Right?

Places that I do not recommend for crush-cruising besides your basic alley way, are: welding garages, underneath bridges, podiatry offices, nursing homes, salad buffets, the Everglades, taxi cabs, communes, Nickelback concerts, water-towers, death-beds, shopping carts, Tokyo, Bed-Stuy, ant-farms and inside of the toilet. Don’t bother with those.