I like a boy.
We talked about it. It was deep.
“….I really like you.”
“I like you too.”
“…I don’t usually like people this much.”
“Yea, me either.”
Love is a very innocent feeling, and all the great authors and poets will stack words upon words of embellishment and eloquence on top of it, trying to explain it, trying so hard to relate it, but it’s really very simple. I like you. A whole lot.
I tried to explain to my friends how in love I am.
“I’m very happy.”
“No, but you don’t understand. I’m like, very very happy.”
“Yes, I see that, that’s wonderful.”
“I’m not sure anyone else has ever been this happy before. I’m not so sure you can understand.”
“I totally get that you’re happy. I’ve been happy too. And I’m happy for you.”
“Right, but…You should probably be jealous.”
It’s intense. You can’t imagine anyone else can possibly relate to what you’re going through. You’re on another level, in another place, and everyone else is just little ants in a faraway land of mediocrity and normal adrenaline levels.
Everything Significant Other is doing is the best thing they could ever possibly be doing.
“S0metimes he’ll just sit there and ignore me.”
“Oh man, that’s awful.”
“No, but I love that. I hate when guys pay too much attention to me. It’s so annoying. They just love me all the time and it’s like ‘Umm…Can you please stop?’ It’s like he gets me. Sometimes when we fight he’ll just pick me up and carry me out of the house. It’s so romantic. Until he leaves me there alone. But our relationship is just so special. You wouldn’t understand.”
“It certainly is.”