I am fifteen and seven twelfths of a year old and I am giving up on love. I've had my shots and my opportunities, but nothing has ever worked out in my favor. I've never even been kissed and I find this positively wretched, unfortunately.
So I've decided that unless loves breaks down my front door and falls at my feet and pleads for me, my future will contain cats.
I've decided I shall have 21 cats. 14 of them are named after notable women in history, such as Susan B. Anthony and Ginger Rogers and Elizabeth Blackwell; one shall be named Anne-Sophie Mutter (because she's awesome), another shall be called Alexander McQueen, you know, because he was sufficiently incredible, and another shall be named Fluffy - because every deserves to have a cat named Fluffy. The final four shall be named George, Paul, John, and Ringo in tribute to the fab four.
I shall begin wearing unflattering, unbecoming, oversized holiday sweaters all months of the year. I shall obtain a fanny pack that is not ugly enough to be funny; yet, not cute enough to be cute - just really, really ugly; I shall carry tampons and dollar bills and other small trinkets in this really, really ugly fanny pack of mine. I will reject any heated tools used to do my hair. I shall watch Bosnian soap operas all hours of the day and night.
This universe has sent me a sign. This is the future it wants for me. If you want to save me, send a cardigan-wearing or sweater-clad boy who enjoys books and libraries and European chocolate and doesn't mind matte lipstick or turquoise rainboots or dancing in public places. Send him to break down my front door and battle each and every one of my cats.
He had better be an exceptional kisser.
All my love,
P.S. If you're sending a boy, he also needs to have nice hair and nice skin and nice teeth and be very skinny. But not skinner than me. He also needs to understand politics. And fashion. And not mind my cats, because they're staying.
P.P.S. And if he doesn't fit these specifications, you should probably just forget about it.