Yesterday, a cute boy who makes me smile sent me this email while vacationing in Thailand:

I’ll be home the 23rd – 30th so please try to squeeze me into your busy schedule if you can. No darts though…I don’t think my parents’ cats can take it.

Hope all is well in MN.

Talk to you soon I hope.

The problem is that he’s nice. Like, really nice. Nice like he’s carried me up stairs when afraid my drunken, giggling ass would fall down them. Nice like he asks for updates about my past medical conditions. Nice like he doesn’t mind that, even though I suck at darts and play anyway, my darts inevitably plunge toward the feline creatures prowling his parents’ basement.

I don’t think I can handle nice at this point.

I could handle someone emotionally unavailable because I am emotionally unavailable. I could handle a player because I play the game. I could handle someone quirky because then I could gossip about them to my friends and feel, in comparison, like a stable individual.

But nice? I would walk all over nice. I would manipulate nice. Nice would make me feel like a bad person. Nice might threaten my happy (and precarious) place.

But he’s really comfortable to lay on for movies … so maybe nice could be ok, especially when temporary and only in town for the holidays.