Rejoice! The chosen man has arrived. Judith Butler under one shoulder and a leather crossbody on the other, you just know he has a “complicated relationship” with David Foster Wallace. His posse of vaguely dykish exes are his main group of friends, and in his free time, he likes to thrift!
Emerging from his class on Marxist literary theory, we see a true ally take his smoke break. Huzzah! As he lights his cigarette (handrolled, duh), he compliments you on the “methodologically expansive” work you did on your Lukács essay, which he asked to read. It reminded him of a piece he read in, God, what was it, Granta? maybe? He gets his literary magazines mixed up sometimes. You should totally read the new Merve Emre in the Yale Review though. He tells you about the tattoo he’s thinking of getting to add to his patchwork sleeve. It involves a cowboy hat, a poem, and his mom.
People are starting to notice the intellectual chemistry between you two as you discuss the quality of Saussure’s Semiotic Theory. He smiles and nods as you cite from the text. He tells you you’re pretty smart—you’re pretty smart for a girl or, at least, you’re pretty smart for an English major. He’s Philosophy. You should come by his dorm to borrow his copy of Agony of Eros. It’s no Barthes, but it adapts it for the modern condition.
He’s intellectually honest with you. Which is nice, you know? But when push comes to shove, he doesn’t really want anything serious. His ex had him banged up pretty bad and, well, he wouldn’t want to sleep with and make you feel like he was using you just to satisfy some deeper psychosexual issue, right? You understand.
He is going to like your friend on Hinge tomorrow morning. Brace yourself.