34: Bad Bad News

Dear Sir,

Just so you know, this won't end with me saying something along the lines of 'I'm just a girl standing in front of a boy asking him to love her' or waiting for you to come up to my fire escape or something.

I've probably bolted.

You see, I'm a bad choice. Like, pick up the red phone and call the sure thing. Me? I drink too much, and flirt with other guys. I breathe sarcasm, I subsist on irony, I stand by my bad decisions, my good decisions, and I wouldn't take a lot of you what say at face value, cause I can make a cute joke, all the better. I need to sit by myself and figure things out, I need to nap, I need to be able to put on my headphones and ignore you. I'm skittish, and yes, I do know that's a phrase reserved for teenage novels about horses. I hold all my cards to the chest, leave too early and expect you to know to get out of the car and follow me. I won't make that first move.

I suppose there is a light at the end of the tunnel. I'm faithful with my emotions, if not my lips, and I'll cook you nice dinners whenever you need it. I'll watch bad movies, and drink beers, and get you into fights about sports teams I know nothing about. If anything, I'm good for an adventure. I'll probably throw paper balls at your head more times that you can count.

Go with it.

I'm not going to put my heart on the line for you. Sure, I'll threaten anything that comes near my friends with something in the vein of 'break their hearts, and I'll break your kneecaps', but I don't trust anyone with my insides.


I'll talk. And talk. And talk. Stop smiling and kiss me.