By Gary Bernard
Springtime in New York. The birds are chirping, the sun is shining, and I’m looking for love. I just got out of a nasty croc-on-croc relationship, and for a while I didn’t know if I could love again. But when I saw the way your neon orange, foot-shaped shoes hit the pavement as you walked the last 2k of the color run, I knew you were the only one for me.
I feel like I already know you. You obviously own a Fitbit, and you probably burn through those 10,000 steps by brunch. You’re not a vegan, but you always ask for rice milk in your macchiatos. And sure, you didn’t vote for Jill Stein, but you thought she had some great ideas.
Let me bury my secrets deep inside that expensive leather man-bag you keep strapped to your lanky midwestern frame. I want to replace those orange scented candles that Housing confiscated from your dorm last February, and blast the folk rock station on Spotify while I slide between your burlap sheets. I swear it’s not a fetish—just promise me you’ll keep the toe shoes on. Whisper in my ear about the extra traction they give you for Ultimate while you upload every single picture from your backpacking trip to Pinterest. I would do anything for you. I’ll even switch from Cliff to Luna if that’s what it takes.
Was that you I saw the other day selling Herbalife? Wow. I never knew I could love so much.