Admitting you’re boy-crazy is a bit like admitting to alcoholism or to an embarrassing addiction to The Real Housewives of Orange County. It might be okay when you’re fifteen years old, and you plaster your room with posters of Leonardo DiCaprio and Barry Manilow (so I was a strange child). But, I find that increasingly, as I enter into the twentysomething world, I’m faced with a dilemma: I’m no less boy-crazy, but I’m a whole more embarrassed about it. Keep reading »
