I bet young Ilya Rozanov never thought he’d get slapped in the face with that tism rizz and he would be so fucking cooked.
This man has eight of the same shirt and five of the same hoodie. This man memorizes hockey stats for fun. This man will have a cold ginger ale. This man will look awkwardly at the camera with a smile like he wants to incinerate himself in every wet t-shirt contest sports drink ad his mom books for him. This man will take everything you say absolutely literally. That’s French, Ilya. You just said a French word and we’re talking about Russian, are you unfamiliar with your own language. This man takes three days to recognize a social cue. And ten years to name an emotion. You’ll tell him you like him in the most roundabout way and you’ll think you NAILED it, and he’ll promptly have a panic attack on your dick. When he names that emotion finally? He’ll be absolutely relentless and will not stand down; he’s had an emotion and he knows you have one, too. By that point, there’s no escape. He’s imprinted on you and is starting to ovulate in your vicinity. He will bludgeon you with adorable nerd and insatiable ass. And his oral fixation is so mighty he’ll suck your remaining brain cells out through your dick.
This man drives a Range Rover because it’s good in the snow. This man does a loon call. This man will make you eight cheeseburgers. Buddy it’s over for you.
