don't offer him alcohol unless you're okay with a broken bottle, because he's faced with the rememberance of all the times his father came home wreaking of disaster and ***** and anger. when you're in the car, steer far from the country music station. he's never liked it, quite frankly he's never liked the radio in general. when you tell him you love him for the first time, and  ****** you will, do it in the safety of his rusty old apartment, preferably in the morning. he's never been a night person. he likes kissing your neck, but don't kiss his back. i never really understood why, i guess i never will. his favorite movie is dead poets society, and everytime he watches it he discovers something new. his favorite color has always been black, and if you ask him for his favorite song you will get a different response every week. if i recall correctly, which i do, he smokes four and a half cigarettes a day. i don't know why he won't let me say five, i guess i never will. he moved to manhattan when he was fifteen years old and pulled from the only mother and father he's ever known. i don't know why i'm writing this. don't tell him i did, and please, oh god please take care of him.