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Please cease your cuteness immediately.

You’re messing with my game. I’m a badass motherfucker with a reputation to protect! I’ve bike-of-shame’d home from more Mount Pleasant group houses than one of Ralph Nader’s clipboard-toting interns could hit in a month. My player credentials are signed, stamped, and notarized — I don’t go all soft and drizzly for just anyone with blown glass cheekbones and barely-freckled-enough skin and melted chocolate Bambi eyes and…

…oh, shit.

How dare your dimples be so pinchable? How dare your cardigan look so soft and comforting? Your off-kilter white-breadedness is so charming, it verges on ironic. You’re inspiring some embarrassingly pastoral fantasies in me, you lithe little piece of Americana, you.

You make me want to go to your parents’ lake house in the Poconos for the weekend, make out with you in an Adirondack chair, and start water balloon fights with your adorable little cousins — of which I’m sure you have plenty, because you look like the product of a family that knows a thing or two about breeding the most adorable of human beings.

I want to pick grapes in the sun with you, make our own wine, name it after our three-legged dog, sell the hand-labeled bottles at state fairs, and use the profits to buy a telescope so we can watch stars explode. I don’t know, that just seems like something we’d like to do together. Vomit-worthy, right? I can’t help it! You’re so damn precious!

And that enigma of a square tattoo? I want to draw a four-leaf clover inside of it with my Sharpie and kiss it every morning for good luck before I leave the house. See?! You’re turning me into a Miranda July cliché! You make me want to renounce my seed-spreading ways and settle the fuck down, wholesome-looking Big Bear barista. Screw you.