Dear Fed,
I think I might be in love with the Thinker.
Hear me out. I was walking out of my Metaphysical Erotics in Aristotelean Constructs class one day when I was stopped in my tracks outside Philosophy Hall by the sight of him. I stood, mouth agape, transfixed on his broad shoulders gleaming in the sunlight. My gaze slowly trailed down his back, over that rippling sea of muscles. I could feel my heart trying to burst free of my chest, just like how Kant tried to burst free of non-metaphysical morality by establishing the categorical imperative.
I coyly sauntered across the muddy swamp of Philosophy lawn to face him head on. Oh, what a sight to behold! That face, those strong arms, those sturdy legs, that constipated-man-on-the-toilet-pose—I wanted him so bad.
I tapped him on the shoulder. He ignored me, but you know how these intellectual types like to play hard-to-get. So I scribbled down my number on the back of my CC syllabus and slipped it into his hand with a wink. “Call me.”
I know, I know. My friends keep telling me not to get into relationships with unobtainable and distant men, especially ones who put themselves up on pedestals. But I can’t help myself. And besides, I’m sure this is more than just platonic. I’ve already seen him with his clothes off.
XOXO,
Thoughtful Thot
