Sophomore year of high school:
1) A bunch of junior guys nicknamed me "Squealer", because of the noise I would make when they poked and/or molested me in some way. I had completely forgotten this little tidbit until reading the multiple autographs that mention it and seeing the oinking piggy that Joseph Winningham was kind enough to draw me. Yeah, that's real cute.
2) I had a crush on about a thousand boys. Like this kid Robert Hansen, whenever we spoke I would say something about us needing to make out (of course at this point I had never made out with anyone, so I was clearly all talk). Or Ken Schirman, I did SO MUCH of his homework, but he would give me rides sometimes, and talk to me in the halls, so I thought I was getting this super deal. Or Tom Kempkes, he was like this hardcore bad boy who wore a leather jacket and listened to Metallica and always skipped Orchestra. He wrote an entire half-page in my yearbook which I was SURE at the time meant that he wanted to be my lover. I guess we'll never know. (I've actually pseudo-kept in touch with him, I run into him from time to time and have his phone number. So technically I guess we could know. I'm fairly sure it's better not to). But none of those crushes even came close to the heaping amounts of love I reserved for Tim Cady. He was practically my existence. And you know who was the only person to write a full page to me that year (complete with a list of what she admired most about me, including my faith in God)? His girlfriend, Emily. Oh High School Irony, you hateful bitch.
3) I had a reputation for being a lesbian. Never dating a girl, or even kissing a girl, during high school did nothing to deter this assumption. It wasn't super wide-spread or anything, but there was definitely an Aislinn's-A-Lesbian faction. Case in point:
I remember the first time I saw you. Boy, I thought you were a lesbian. But now that I have gotten to know you, I know for a fact that you are a lesbian.
I suppose I can understand the mistake, seeing as I was intelligent, strong-willed, outspoken, and opinionated, all qualities that obviously preclude a taste for men. Too bad I also did things like drink nine glasses of water and three Shirley Temple's just to make Hot Waiter Man have to keep coming back to the table so Mandy and I could ogle him. We asked him if we could take a picture of him (yes, we could), but never asked his name (or email address, or phone number, or... social security number...). Geniuses.
Anyway, those are the more amusing things I've remembered, most of the other stuff just turns into a big mushy ball of nostalgia that no one, including me, wants to hear about. Squealing and crushing and lesbianism are the entertaining highlights.