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It's officially booty o'clock, I'm alone again in my kitchen choking down a slice of terrible chocolate cake...and I'm pretty sure I just got drunk texted by the man I have a ginormous crush on. I've been daydreaming about Eliot Hoffman's dimples for two months, and even though I'm sure this was a mistake on his end, it doesn't mean it's not an opportunity on mine. It's the middle of the night, and I just wanna talk to him. So I text him back. And then somehow we keep talking . . . ALL NIGHT. We're both insomniacs, so talking all night soon turns into talking EVERY night. And talking about nothing soon turns into talking about something. And here we go from in-depth analysis of reality TV to my relationship with my family, to his amazing artwork. There's no topic we don't cover . . . Except for who I really am. It's the only question of his I won't answer. As my crush turns into an avalanche of Eliot, I think of him all the time now. But if he knew who I was, the entire house of cards we've built this relationship on would come toppling down. I want him to be mine, but we might never be more than just a sweet dream . . .