It’s 9am…you know what that means. Time to check our emotional temperature!
You can imagine what fun it must be, to date a girl like me.
I like to talk about our feelings. And then — careful! — I might write about them on the Internet. Kind of obviously, but hopefully a little bit mysteriously…some two, or three, or four years later.
There might also be a lot of I wrote this for you. (Just for you.) I won’t especially want you to show those things to anyone else. Is that fair?
In exchange, if I ever write a book, I promise to change your name. Unless I find out that you actually also really liked another girl’s breakfast in bed, way back when.
In which case, you know, all bets are off.
But, Future Boyfriend, I do have a redeeming factor: I love it when you go out with your friends. Time alone! Time to liberate the chocolate chip ice cream from all those hunks of cookie dough.
What? You could have sworn you bought cookie dough?
Would it help if I made hot fudge for the rest?
I also really love going out for pizza. I probably won’t have any beer, but you’ll be happy with yours — and the fact that I’m a cheap date. We’ll eventually be able to settle on which pizza to split, and the waitress might think these two are doomed, but we’ll end up having a really great time. And then on the way home, with an affectionate elbow in your ribs, and a head ducked against your shoulder, I’ll admit that it might have been fun to try the Salsicciotta, after all. But we couldn’t even pronounce it!
Maybe we’ll go back sometime, and maybe we’ll ask for it then. (I hope we do.) And I suppose that eventually, I might stammer my way through asking if you’d be okay with meeting my parents, and maybe my three older brothers. And, uh, if you wouldn’t mind being a part of my Internet presence?
(I will definitely make that as awkward as it sounds.)
You won’t have to look at me like that. I know it’ll be weird. You’ll have picked a weird one. But she will make damn good hot fudge, and she will surround you in sentences that feel like soft hugs, as often as you let her. Someday she might also shred your insides apart. Incidentally. By adding something in at the last minute, maybe in parentheses, about halfway down the page. Something she could have just as easily omitted, with the swipe of a single keystroke.
I don’t know what it’s like — to be written about. I’m not quite sure if I’d like it.