Tonight I went on a date with vocabulary boy, whose name is L.
I like him.
I was so nervous the whole evening, in fact, that I barely said a word, and when I did manage to talk it was in strings of such absolute incoherence as to rival a Pentecostal speaking in tongues. I kept starting stories and stopping them midway upon realizing that the punch lines made me look stupid or judgmental or prissy or weird; this gave my conversation the grace and ease of, oh, say, the Hunchback of Notre Dame attempting to do the time step. I listened in horror as I uttered foolishness after foolishness, and when I was finally able to stop myself, it was only to lapse again into a practically Benedictine silence.
But he did pretty much exactly the same things, so maybe he likes me too.