I think he makes my heart do cartwheels, although I don't really know how that feels like because I could never actually do one (I wasn't one of those kids who got sent to ballet at five) but it pounds so fast sometimes and air won't go down my windpipe or stay in my lungs, so I think he must make it do cartwheels. It messes up my brain — blood rushes to it in tides and uneven amounts, and I can't think straight. Sometimes, homework is left undone but most times, I don't care enough to stop it.
Or, maybe I don't want to.
Or, maybe I just can't.