Your hair is wonderful. This may sound utterly creepy, but I gave up my seat in the bus and stood behind you until your stop, only so I could be close to you and your hair.
You have a beautiful face and a pleasing, slender, youthful figure. A rare sight in a country of ugly fat women with giant boobs and badly dyed hair.
At times like this, I wish I could be 15 (fifteen!) years younger, so I could ask you out for a date. So I could caress your hair and kiss your lovely face and wrap my arms around your waist, while dropping on my knees in awe at the wonder of you.
But you’re still in high school, though, and I’m already past 30. Being this attracted to you makes me want to kill myself, knowing it would be wrong to act upon my feelings. It’s just wrong, I can’t do that.
And even if I did, you wouldn’t like me anyways. Not only because I’m way too old for you, but also because I’m a damned creep, poor as a rat and batshit insane.
I should be married to a woman at most five years my junior, I should have already raised a family, with kids in primary school and all that. I should also have finished university, earn twice my current income, and have a beautiful house. I have none of that.
Well, I have a house, but it’s small and doesn’t look quite good (but it’s mine!)