Dear Pretty Girl

Dear Pretty Girl,
Look, I’m gay. I’m not saying that because you were trying to hit on me or anything, it’s just- well, it just doesn’t make sense.
I was taking Karl out for his morning walk and I don’t usually think anything of it because, well, most people out at 7 AM on July 5th are the folks doing the Walk of Shame and who cares what they think?
My hair was a mess, I was wearing a half-zipped up hoodie with nothing underneath, and I’m pretty sure I was still yawning.
All in all, not really a big deal, but still, when you said “good morning” all I could do was blush.
I choked on the words as I tried to utter some semblance of a coherent reply.
But all I could think was, “man, I look like shit.”
So, I don’t know what it is about you or why, but when I couldn’t manage to say something back to you, it wasn’t because I’m rude or I was still half-asleep.
Something about you makes me nervous. Just wanted to clear that up.
Sincerely,
Calhoun

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