I like you. No, I really like you. Here’s how much: I rearrange my strenuous schedule as a part-time summer enrichment teacher so I can spend my entire afternoon, five days a week, logged into an instant messenger application; I want to be able to flirt with you while you’re at work using Revit to label plans for new toilet partitions & to locate grease traps.
Oh & how I flirt.
I average at least three compliments about your smile per afternoon. Fortnightly, I propose we run away to travel Europe together or teach English as a foreign language in Morocco. I craft jokes with just the right balance of innuendo so as to let you know I find you desirable but to keep you from thinking I’m a pig. I use winky emoticons. Constantly.
So don’t think you can fool me with your coy routine. If you are tired of being called “adorable,” & “the prettiest Junior Architect ever,” you’re not going to dissuade me with pictures of kitties losing gravity, or slo-mo video of cats jumping out of boxes. Not even a kitty riding a tortoise will dissuade me.
Instead, the entire contents of cuteoverload.com can only make me adore you more! Don’t misunderstand, I’m way too manly for this stuff & I totally hate it, but in my hetero-normative worldview, you only become more attractive with every fluffy, furry critter you fire at me.
It’s as if you’re saying: “I like cute stuff so I’ll be a good mommy!” & I’ll be damned if that’s not what I’m secretly looking for, here, in front of my laptop, as I sit alone in my boxer shorts, listening to heavy metal, scratching myself. A good future mommy. Who likes cute stuff. I’d say it’s pretty much my only hope.