Dear Man of My Dreams,

You're even better in person. You are painfully sexy, hilarious, and you tell me I'm beautiful everyday. You don't play games, you're honest and the jeans that you wear make your ass look phenomenal. Oh and did I mention that you are unbelievable between the sheets (and in your car, at the park or wherever we may find ourselves unable to resist one another)? You have given me the most functional and sexually satisfying 4 months of my life. I had given up all hope people, let alone men, like you even existed. We're so perfect it even makes me gag.

The Cruel Twist (there always is one): I move in May.
What will become of our disgustingly perfect relationship?

Trying not to think of the day where I won't be here for you to f***,
M