Hell will freeze over before he notices you. It's the truth and it burns worse than a redhead at the beach. You notice everything about him and maybe he's seen your face once. He's rich, too, and good-looking. The worst thing to be is almost the opposite, and that's probably what you are. You can spy on him from afar, maybe behind a column at lunch, watching him eat that burger and fries. Taking a swig of soda. Squeezing out ketchup from a packet - check out those biceps and squeal. He works out, doesn't he? Reserve that column for a month at least. Put up curtains around it. Quarantine all areas fifty yards out. If you don't, he (and everyone else, but who cares about them?) will avoid you like the plague. Nobody likes a obvious stalker.

Follow him like a hawk with your eyes. Avert your gaze when he turns your way. He’s probably not even looking at you, but you're a paranoid little freak. Casually toss your hair and act sexy without trying. Smile at nothing. Watch him turn away because he didn't see you. Watch him turn away because he doesn't care. Pretend he cares. Buy yourself a hot fudge vanilla sundae with extra whipped cream and sprinkles because you know the truth.

Tell funny jokes when he’s within earshot. Keep track of how many times he seems to be listening in. Bonus points: if he laughs and repeats the joke to his friends. If humor fails to work (and how could it? You obviously have a long and budding career as a stand-up comedian) then it’s time to resort to Plan B: food. It’s a well-known fact that all males will immediately gravitate to food within fifty feet. So sit dangerously close to him with a fresh platter of pastries, asking if anyone wants it because A) you couldn’t possibly finish it yourself, B) you’re not hungry, C) you’re trying to watch your figure, or better yet, D) all of the above.

Write long emails to him confessing your eternal love and devotion (it doesn’t matter how you got his email address), but delete them before you can hit send. Dream that he reads does the same for you. Keep trying to follow him on Instagram. Tumblr. Facebook. Only post your cutest selfies or deep, meaningful tweets that will leave him considering you the greatest writer of less than 140 characters since Neil DeGrasse Tyson. He doesn’t (won't) follow you back or accept your friend requests, but at least he knows you’re there.

Cry when homecoming rolls around because you know he won’t ask you. Complain that you’re forever alone and will be third-wheeling until you die. Reject the boys who ask you to dances since they’re not men like he is. Laugh in their faces. Don’t feel bad. Turn away. Don’t feel bad. See how the tables have turned. Don’t feel bad. Break their hearts. Don’t feel bad. They need the pain to survive. Probably. After all, so do you.