If Pretty in Pink taught me anything in 1986 it was that love was all those things, but it was also a reason to get out of bed in the morning – the hope of it, anyway. Nothing was going to happen at school, but there was always the commute: maybe I'd bump into my dream guy in the food court. We'd share donut holes and talk about the Smiths. At 15 I was so far from romantic love that I practically have a violin soundtrack to my memory stream. That was me on the train with the acne and ankle socks staking out porcelain-skinned private school boys, or shabby punks thumbing Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas.