Note: This is not a poem.

To you, uber-cute son of a bitch (sorry, foul language),

Damn you, don’t text me.
When you text me, I can’t help replying.
When I reply, we start talking.
When we talk, we get to know each other better.
If we keep on doing that, we’ll become friends.

And we can’t be friends.
If we’re friends, we’ll get closer.
If we’re closer, I’ll care so much.
When I care that much, I might fall.
If I fall, I might get hurt.
When I’m hurt, I become vengeful.
You won’t like that.

Your sister won’t like that, either.

So please, don’t do this.
We can’t be friends.
Seriously.

And oh, again, don’t text me.
And stop calling me!!!

So there. I said it.

*** Actually, I really, really like the guy. He’s intelligent, knowledgeable, articulate, funny, and most of all, CUTE. But that’s exactly the problem. If he continues being nice to me, I’ll fall. To quote Ian Hainsworth (Desperate Housewives): “If we can’t have anything more than friendship, then we’d rather have nothing. Nothing at all.”

Waaaah. But damn! I like him.

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