So you kind of asked me out last month, gave me your number, offered to go to accompany me to my cousin’s baseball game. I had said his season was over. I thought it was, did you think I was lying to avoid seeing you? You play too, baseball I mean, did you know his season wasn’t over? You could have mentioned it. I didn’t know. Now you don’t seem interested at all. When I text you your replies are half-hearted at best, yet you’re still a hoot and a half.
I like you, a lot. I mean you are like really nice, thoughtful, talented on the field and on the stage (we had theater class together, remember?), and you’re freaking hot.
I don’t even like baseball, but I’d be willing to go to a game, watch one, have you teach me to hit a ball with a long wood stick.
Try again because I’m tired of trying. Even though we’re a year apart, I know you saw something there, right? Am I crazy when I saw you glance at me? Did you think I was insane when I stared unashamedly at you? Well probably.
I meant for this letter to be short. But somehow, even on paper, you have me confessing how much I like you when you should be working for that affection. I saw you at pictures the other day, you were leaving while I was pulling into the lot. I screamed at my friend to look. There you were in all your gorgeous six foot something-ness, a dream boat. We screamed until she parked. I texted you, you seemed uninterested in speaking to me, but I kept at it. I thought I could annoy you into asking me out.
Hey, I’m a girl with no experience in this area. but you thought I was something once, so did your best friend, though admittedly I think he was drunk.
Either you lost interest, which, trying not to sound too narcissistic, seems weird and unrealistic or you thought I was an easy lay and just wanted to get in my pants.
Ask me out if you like me or fuck off if you like the zipper on my jeans.
I like YOU, even if you play baseball, the most boring sport of all time.
Think about it.