(no subject)
Why is it that something as quick and simple as a two-, maybe three-sentence conversation can feel as painful as yanking out a tooth? I don’t know much about her, just her name and a few bits of information. The snippets I know about her are as insubstantial as clippings of a newspaper article: I only know so much, but not the entire story.
And how I want to know.
She’s original, she’s hot, and I can’t help but staring at her ass when she walks by. I keep myself from talking with her, because I’m a bumbling, blushing fool, but I hope I can at least hold a conversation with her without exploding in a mess of electrified nerves and hormones.
She bakes. She explained and defended transgenders. (If that doesn’t put hearts in my eyes…) Guys, she. Likes. Glee.
Oh, and she has cool Monopoly shoes.
I want. I want so much.