Dear girl, Part II:
I think about you when I wake up. I dream about you when I'm asleep. Your hair is so soft, when you press your face against mine to hear me talk in the club, I could just fall asleep. That smile of yours makes me weak in the places that I've always been the strongest. I could get lost in your beautiful eyes, such depthless pools of azure majesty. You aren't afraid to touch me, show me pictures of you being sexy with your friends, talk about how you're naked when you invite me over and then answer the door in little more than lingerie. You cook for me, tell me you were thinking about me or you miss me. And my heart soars. Then you tell me little things in jesting conversation, how if I kissed you, it'd be bad. Maybe I shouldn't have brought that up just after some other fool tried to steal one, one who you didn't treat nearly like you do me, but you still said it. The way I'm 'not your type', but definitely not a troll. Was that calling me cute? I'm not sure. Anytime I see a guy who I might be jealous of, were I your boyfriend, you are so quick to tell me that you don't like him like that. Any time you tell me of a guy you do like, you're just as quick to tell me that he doesn't like you or know you're alive. But then we argue for a half hour about how it'd be weird to party with you and your other friends because you don't think we'd get along, because I'm not like ANY of your other friends. What is it then that draws you to me? Why are your words and your actions so different? Were you any other person, the first time you pressed against me and put your arms around me from behind, even I of the delayed reflexes, would have kissed you, quick as a striking rattlesnake. And yet that's exactly what it is, I hear your voice, haunting me- "Please don't kiss me. It'd be bad. Why? It just would." And you know what the irony is? Every time I look at you with your sassy smirk, or the way you grab your breasts and heft them up whenever me or Joe mention your cleavage, I hear Sebastian the Crab's voice in my head singing, Kiss the Girl. These things you do, they stir up a maelstrom of conflicting emotions in me, and wear at even my mighty self control. Should I ride this out, or should I risk all and just lay one on you even though you've said not to? I just don't know anymore.
Sincerely,
The me that can't decide whether to remain a prince or become a cowboy.
And there you have it folks, that's my most heartfelt inner monologue about the girl I'm into. Lovely, isn't it?
I think about you when I wake up. I dream about you when I'm asleep. Your hair is so soft, when you press your face against mine to hear me talk in the club, I could just fall asleep. That smile of yours makes me weak in the places that I've always been the strongest. I could get lost in your beautiful eyes, such depthless pools of azure majesty. You aren't afraid to touch me, show me pictures of you being sexy with your friends, talk about how you're naked when you invite me over and then answer the door in little more than lingerie. You cook for me, tell me you were thinking about me or you miss me. And my heart soars. Then you tell me little things in jesting conversation, how if I kissed you, it'd be bad. Maybe I shouldn't have brought that up just after some other fool tried to steal one, one who you didn't treat nearly like you do me, but you still said it. The way I'm 'not your type', but definitely not a troll. Was that calling me cute? I'm not sure. Anytime I see a guy who I might be jealous of, were I your boyfriend, you are so quick to tell me that you don't like him like that. Any time you tell me of a guy you do like, you're just as quick to tell me that he doesn't like you or know you're alive. But then we argue for a half hour about how it'd be weird to party with you and your other friends because you don't think we'd get along, because I'm not like ANY of your other friends. What is it then that draws you to me? Why are your words and your actions so different? Were you any other person, the first time you pressed against me and put your arms around me from behind, even I of the delayed reflexes, would have kissed you, quick as a striking rattlesnake. And yet that's exactly what it is, I hear your voice, haunting me- "Please don't kiss me. It'd be bad. Why? It just would." And you know what the irony is? Every time I look at you with your sassy smirk, or the way you grab your breasts and heft them up whenever me or Joe mention your cleavage, I hear Sebastian the Crab's voice in my head singing, Kiss the Girl. These things you do, they stir up a maelstrom of conflicting emotions in me, and wear at even my mighty self control. Should I ride this out, or should I risk all and just lay one on you even though you've said not to? I just don't know anymore.
Sincerely,
The me that can't decide whether to remain a prince or become a cowboy.
And there you have it folks, that's my most heartfelt inner monologue about the girl I'm into. Lovely, isn't it?
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duh.