Guess I'll have to put your two flat feet on the ground myself, and rewrite your identity. No, no, my dear, I fear you are no good for this role. You are not sweet, you are not honey. I cannot see you in the kitchen, in a dress, in my arms. You're that skinny, wild sort of love. The ones that hang from the towers and cause trouble on the prowl. You don't walk from class to class, you skateboard and play vinyl records on the rooftop of your apartment building. You have many lovers, near and far. You travel, you're always on the run, in the lab, in the car. The art you make is raunchy, full of guts and lacking in a constructive end point. But, this doesn't bother you, it never did. You're a dreamer, and there aren't many like you left. You bang on the gongs and except the fire to never burn out.
Truth is, you're the kind of trouble I could get into.