You’re So Hot, I Think I Have Third Degree Burns


SOS. 911. It’s an emergency.

Generally speaking, I’m not often impressed by dudes. For all the romantic (read: annoying) poetry I write, it’s a rarity I meet someone who actually inspires pen to paper…or, you know, fingers to a keyboard. At this point, my imagination is hotter than anything Tinder or the like has to offer.

Call it being too picky. Unreasonable. Say I’m expecting the unattainable. Maybe I purposefully set weird, oddly specific standards that no human can actually meet. Blame my hibernating libido that I’m secretly afraid permanently died when the orange dictator took over.

Whatever the reason, the more people I meet, the more I resonate with Larry David.

I never like anyone enough to save their number in my phone and I hate it. I hate this feeling. I’d rather drool after every person who talks to me. That way, I swing and my chances are relatively good. Instead I’m here, attracted to someone every five years and hoping it’s a mutual thing.

Alright, that might be a slight exaggeration.

But my sexual juices don’t start flowing for just anyone.

And then you walk in and I metaphorically want to die. Is it romantic? Because it just feels melodramatic and like I’ve spontaneously hit puberty all over again. Hormones made me feel weird things. In 6th grade, I thought Ross Geller from Friends was my truest love. I couldn’t possibly like anyone the way I liked him, the fictional late 20-something character with a bad haircut. In 7th grade, I was obsessed with Spike, a bad boy vampire from Buffy The Vampire Slayer. Puberty was a whole lot of angst and lusty feelings I couldn’t quite understand for people I watched on TV.

Holy fuck, you just smiled and I might have swallowed my tongue.

Yep, there is definitely something chemical happening to me.

You are so good looking, my eyeballs actually hurt. What’s it like being that way? Are you aware? Of course you are, what a dumb question. You must wake up every morning, catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, and your reflection winks back. Do you get free samples all the time? Is it like being in Costco no matter where you are?

I was so struck by your face and body and general you-ness that I texted my mom. I texted my mom for a pep talk. I am 25 years old. (My mom says I’m warm and funny and smart, btw)

Anyway, good job on the genetics.

Tell your parents I said, “NICE WORK.” Because god damn. I’ve never seen someone like you.

You make me feel the things I thought were dead and buried in a ditch. You make me think there’s still hope.