He’s sweet, kind, funny, charming, absolutely gorgeous and we met in class, but there’s just one problem: he’s my TF, as in Totally Fuhgetaboutit. Taking a class with a hot TF? Drop it, or say goodbye to both your academic career and your social one. I said bye to mine a long time ago.
Don’t get me wrong—I love staring at that chiseled, dreamy face at 5 p.m. every Wednesday, but not when my notebook is filled with middle-school style hearts, all containing the words “K <3s G 4ever,” instead of Marx and Weber. And then when he asks me to stay after class, I get excited, only to learn that I bombed a paper and now need to go to office hours. I spend more time lining my eyes with eyeliner than I do outlining my next paper. Why couldn’t this be a class on human anatomy?
And what if after all of my near obsessive attempts at seduction and telepathic communication, he flirts back? It’s nice, until I remember again that HE’S MY TF. You might as well stamp the word “unavailable” all over his perfectly proportioned little forehead. Yet somehow that only makes that forehead—and the rest of him—so much hotter. Instead of spending my nights navigating the awkward dating pool that is Harvard, I spend my nights stalking his Facebook page, and professing my love on ISawYouHarvard, hoping somehow, someday, he’ll see it and say it back.
Heed my warning: don’t let those smoldering eyes fool you and make you suffer what I’ve suffered. And to you, hot TF with the body of a Greek god and the face of an angel: you had me at hello, and it’s been making my life hell.
