“Holmesy, you’re aglow. You’re luminous. You’re beaming.” “I’m not.” “You are.”
“I honestly can’t even tell if he’s cute.” “He’s in that vast boy middle,” she said.
“Like, good-looking enough that I’m willing to be won over. The whole problem with boys is that ninety-nine percent of them are, like, okay.
If you could dress and hygiene them properly, and make them stand up straight and listen to you and not be dumbasses, they’d be totally acceptable.”
“I’m really not looking to date anyone.” I know people often say that when secretly looking for a romantic partner, but I meant it.
I definitely felt attracted to some people, and I liked the idea of being with someone, but the actual mechanics of it didn’t much suit my talents.
Like, parts of typical romantic relationships that made me anxious included 1. Kissing;
2. Having to say the right things to avoid hurt feelings; 3. Saying more wrong things while trying to apologize;
4. Being at a movie theater together and feeling obligated to hold hands even after your hands become sweaty and the sweat starts mixing together;
and 5. The part where they say, “What are you thinking about?”
And they want you to be, like, “I’m thinking about you, darling,”
but you’re actually thinking about how cows literally could not survive if it weren’t for the bacteria in their guts,
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