Herein lies the dilemma of having a crush. Do you actually want to act on it? Do you want to give them your phone number and resign yourself to feeling miserable until they finally text you? Sometimes it’s fun to just have the crush. The PG fantasy.
You meet someone of your preferred sex and you like them—I don’t mean in the OMG YOU’RE SO HAWT I JUST WANT TO TOUCH YOUR GENITALS WAY either, I mean, you actually like them in the OMG LET’S HOLD HANDS AND MAYBE LATER LOOK INTO EACH OTHERS EYEBALLS MEANINGFULLY sort of way.
I felt a surge of excitement when she looked happy with my suggestion, and a preview flashed before me of Kate, later telling everyone how cool it was that I drove her through campus on the hood, like the punk version of a Thanksgiving Day parade float.
The next day you will work on a novel about a lonely woman in New York City. I will work on a novel about depressed movie stars who don’t read books or look at blogs or have pets. We will meet in the living room at 3:30PM and eat watermelon by the window and watch small children walk home from school.
Um, you’re creepy? Um, you’re too old? Um, you’re too aggressive? Um, you smell like onions? Um, I think you have a boyfriend? Um, you just graduated high school? Um, I just ate a burrito and am not DTF? Um, you’re not cute? Um, I need to feel empowered by rejecting you?