Have I told you guys that I’m in love with a bro? He’s beautiful. He’s in my women’s studies class. There’s this girl in my class who Tina and I call Ambassador To All Dudes, and when she says stuff like, “I just think we need to appreciate the impressive things that men do in the home these days,” he slowly raises his perfect, bumbly hand and says things like “I just think men expect to be congratulated for things they should do anyway.” He’s in sexual assault crisis intervention training with me. He’s giant. He’s beautiful. He wears sweatpants. And he is the broiest of bros. I am absolutely in love with him. It’s started to move beyond those feelings I usually have for the bros I love—feelings very similar to my feelings for the neighborhood squirrel, except more alien—and it’s creeped into hetero territory. I am in love. He’s perfect. I want to marry him. I want to keep him forever. I sort of wish I gave birth to him.
He has a girlfriend, and they look awesome together.