Regardless of my string of past occupational failures I was a girl on a mission, fueled by the prospect of new clothes and more freedom from the tedious monotony of my home life. This brand spanking new idea of a part time summer job is how I met Cupid.

I was in a rush coming home from my last day in the tenth grade. Summer was upon me at last and I could feel the hands of the sun push me outdoors to enjoy a little vitamin D before the rain ruined my moment. The weather here in sunny Florida has a way of turning on you unexpectedly.

This exceptionally warm day found me walking down the street that led me to my new employer. You never would know it but Cupid is actually a pretty normal looking guy with no diaper and definitely no sheath of bow and arrows, at least none that naked eye can see. And as long as you don’t take into account the Gucci suit that almost always drapes his tall, muscular frame, he’s certainly no head turner.

I was casually walking along on the sidewalk when I first laid eyes on the incarnation of love himself. Actually, that’s not quite true; I laid my size 8 foot on the back of his nicely stitched Prada loafer first, causing a total mythical being meltdown. This was all accidental of course; I usually try to keep my distance from crazed workaholic men who look like they consider red bull to be an appropriate breakfast option for a little pick me up. This particular one was no exception, in fact he looked like he belonged in the epicenter of some cultural Venn diagram that incorporated all the traits of a successful, yet occupationally obsessed typical male.

Mine and Cupid’s relationship from then on was pretty much indicative of our fateful first encounter, I was always stepping on his toes.

That particular afternoon the sun was shinning high, and my first thought was how odd the rays of light looked as they bounced off his totally bald head, through his wire frame glasses and back into the clouds, almost like they were frightened to be near him too long. His startling blue eyes looked down at his slightly mussed shoe and back at me, almost like he wasn’t sure I was even worth the lecture.
Apparently I was.

His fit was entirely predictable if not surprising, as he looked to be in a hurry before the shoe debacle. Adults in a hurry wouldn’t even notice a building fire, and if the source of that hurry was in that particular fire, then more often than not into the burning building they go.

Although I felt animosity towards him immediately for ruining my first minutes of vacation with his hissy fit, I couldn’t help admiring his footwear. What can I say; a well-shod man easily impresses me. While ogling over his good taste he continued to infect my ears with his nonsense.

”Do you have any idea how much these loafers cost me? Of course you don’t you little brat! And look there; I’ll never get that mud stain out! Why weren’t you looking where you were walking? You kids all think you own these sidewalks!”

Blah blah. After a minute of sheer boredom I stopped him in his designer tracks by yawning and asking a question of my own.

“Excuse me Mr. Clean, but what is your name?” I inquired as politely as a teenager who was teasing someone could.

“Well…uhh…Its Cooper, my name is Cooper” he replied, clearly flummoxed by my sudden chutzpah. “But that is beside the point!” He continued on, and simultaneously I realized I had to stop the conversation before a financial penalty was set in place, really putting a damper on my summer.

“Cooper” I interrupted, leaving out the mister before his name, no respect here. “Sorry about the scuff, but really man where’s your dignity? Its just one little shoe.” A gorgeous, handcrafted, god-like shoe. But I don’t mention that.

“Well, that’s where you’re wrong!” he retorted. “It’s not just a shoe! It’s the principle that the youth today have taken over the whole damn planet without a care in the world or a respect for anyone else in it!” He says with a raised forefinger in the air, clearly affronted yet again by my not so brilliant conversational techniques.

“Well”, I thought hard knowing nothing I say would make any difference, might as well have some fun. “We are the future” I replied sweetly and followed it up with an angelic smile that teachers go gaga over. Not such luck with this fellow, within seconds he went from zero to sixty faster than my dad’s new mid-life crisis convertible, this time pointing out the distinct problems of my entire generation. I let him continue until I really was about to prove an old wives tail true and be actually bored to tears.

“What’s your deal?” I interrupted, once again. This time almost yelling for more emphasis. As I was in the process of telling him exactly where I was about to shove his slightly scuffed Prada, I was instantly distracted from my rant by one of the most vulgar sights I could ever lay my eyes on. Love. Well, technically puppy love, since through my eyes, no relationship existed beyond that point.

I know, alert the media! A living, breathing teen girl does not believe in mushy love that leaves you light headed and makes your toes curl. Let me explain, its not that I hate Love because my heart was broken by my first crush or anything, I just feel this totally and utterly useless word ruins perfectly healthy relationships, both in the school and workplace. Take my parents, two perfect examples of Love under false pretenses. Iv never in my life seen two people more wrong for each other, they fight and bicker like it’s going out of style and couldn’t give two hoots if my sisters or me overhear. No holiday is safe from their tantrums, and neither Christmas mass nor Easter Sunday are important enough to cease-fire for even a few hours.

Once upon a time though they made their vows, and they too proclaimed their Love. And if that is what forms from that God-awful union, if this is what Love brings, count me out

However, this particular pair of vulgarity was exhibiting some serious displays of affection. It’s in these times when I feel like shouting at them, “No you go on ahead and suck face right there in public! Make sure its super awkward for the rest of us to even be near you!” Even from my distasteful staring at the couple that couldn’t have lasted for more than a few moments, I could tell Cupid was looking at me. I couldn’t have been looking for too long?

His round eyes pierced into mine, and he tilted his head to one side upon noticing my expression of pure disgust carefully asked me, “You don’t like love?” announcing each word slowly like he was talking to a very small, very slow child. I know his question was phrased funny, but for some reason I understood exactly what he meant, and it bothered me.

Already slightly fuming from the sight of the oh-so-happy couple, I tastefully let my tongue fly free, “I don’t know why you’d care, but I’m pretty practical and that lovey dovey crap really doesn’t do it for me.”

Looking back, I don’t know if it was my charming personality or alluring commentary but this man clearly looked grateful for my words, to which I was very surprised. He then almost breathlessly spits out, “What did you say your name was again?”

And at that moment our allegiance was formed to fight on the same side in the brutal war on love, whether I liked it or not.