When I was 21 and Had the Chickenpox (oh, that was when I was 23).
Let's see, I liked boys who didn't know shit from shinola, hot-rods and barn music, Italian ice cream without sprinkles, salt-less pretzels dipped in waxy chocolate & Japanese sex cartoons overdubbed in Spanish. Life was good. Well, it was good enough, as long as the dope (whatever boyfriend) was smoking. It was not for me to ask the question why? But, my "friends" would accuse me of being pathologically cheerful at times, and would laugh at my need to smile toward complete and utter strangers. Stranger yet, I would kiss a date only when my lips were smeared with (a home made) lemon-sour chap stick. I would feel the quack of 1000 ducks being blown to bits during the make out session. Okay, so I made that last part up, but the wicked sensation would momentarily block out the sun.
The upside is, things get much better. Also much worse, but much better.