It was an fucking funeral.

I was at an fucking funeral for some relative (some aunt or cousin or something).

And it was there that I fell in love.

It's fucking stupid.

I mean, nobody goes to funerals to hit on men or boys or women or girls or, well, people in general. Unless you count Will Farrell's character, Chaz, in that movie from 2004 "Wedding Crashers."

To this boy, I said nothing.

Usually I am one of those girls who has to say something to the boy she likes.

I mean, some girls -- usually, the gorgeous pretty ones who look like Adriana Lima and totally deny it -- don't have to say a word and boys follow them like they are, well, what they are; a "hot piece of shit" (to quote my older brother).

I am not one of these girls.

On that day, that fucking rainy day, when I was dressed in black, trying to mourn, I was one of those girls.

The boy (who had emerald colored eyes and dark hair) came up to me and said in a questioning tone, "Kerry Wilde?"

I didn't say anything, just stared at his eyes.

And then he kissed me.

It was awful and horrifying and completely, utterly embarassing (hello?! I was kissing a cute boy at a family member's funeral where my mother and father and aunts and uncles were all crying!).

But it felt so fucking right.

And then after the steamy make-out session in the pouring rain in black, black clothes, surrounded by hysterically crying people, he walked away and left.

He got into some car (I tried to see but I couldn't) and drove off. Sped off is more like it.

That was the day I fell in love and that was the day I saw him for the first and last time.