Things did not improve as I gained years and kilos. In class three, I had a class teacher who believed that every kid needed a Valentine, so she would let us take turns drawing out our classmates’ names from a bowl. The person’s name we picked up would be our Valentine for the day. I had been excited and spent about fifteen minutes smiling in anticipation. I would finally have my very own Valentine, even if it was forced and just for a few hours. My smile quickly turned into the almost engraved sad face that I usually walked around with because the guy who drew out my name from the hat looked so unhappy. He even asked the teacher in front of everybody, “Miss, can I pick again?” I had run out of the classroom and went into the bathroom to sob my heart out. Some people are bathroom singers, but I have been a bathroom crier since I can remember.