I spent my pre-teen years believing that nothing could be sexier than sticking a lipstick into my cleavage, bending my head towards it, and applying a perfect pout. It wasn't until years later that I realized that my cleavage without a piece of makeup stuffed inside of it was sexy enough on its own.

I blame John Hughes for my confusion.

I spent my entire eighth grade year blowing on dandelions, my eyes clamped tightly shut.  I was wishing that one day a derelict in detention would sit beside me and sweep his eyes over my entire body – from the tips of my Keds with no laces to the tippy top of my curly head – and know me instantly, better than anyone ever had or ever will.

I blame John Hughes for my predilection towards men who look like they only shower sometimes.