There’s romantic, and then there’s scarily intense.
I’ve had my share of both.
Like the ex-boyfriend who asked me — at the age of 18 — if I would marry him if he asked me in a year or two.
Or the guy I once rejected who sent me (and a multitude of other ladies) a forward on how nice guys finish last, after trying to elicit sympathy from me with a story of how his last girlfriend had gotten a restraining order against him.
People: When you hand your heart over on a platter, could you please make sure it’s not pulsating creepily?
I’m not sure what side of the line this lightbox falls on.
If it’s the one odd object in your apartment, then cool. But if you present it to me on my birthday, all wrapped up and be-ribboned, I might start to feel nervous.