I just like to look at you. Some people say you’re not nice to look at. But I don’t see what they see, I see your soul. God, you have a nice soul. I like you. A lot. And you said you liked me too. And I could see it going far. So why don’t I have my long-fingered, chipped-painted covered hands enveloped in your basketball-toughened palms? That’s what I want to know. You are so special. Most boys, I can see it. But only short-term. You? I think – no, I KNOW, it could last. We could be happy. So come on, make your move. Let me know you want the same thing. I’m dropping hints like a total ass over here. Any time you want me, I’m here. And I have never felt more okay with feeling completely worthless. That’s what you mean to me. I have liked you for, what, a month? It feels like so much longer. It feels like my entire life. Such a short time, though. It’s not supposed to happen like this. It’s supposed to work. I’ve seen the movies. The boy suddenly just opens his eyes and, BAM, he sees it. And I know that you know that I’m waiting. You told her you wanted the same. I get it, you’retakingg it slow. Today, you texted me for the first time. Today, you finally admitted, even though we have a running competition of cuteness, that you think I’m cute. Well guess what? I’m impatient. I can barely wait for my food in the microwave. So you better hope I can wait much longer for you.