Hey, you. Yeah, you. I see you eyeing me at Forever 21. As you circle the rack, your brain is telling you to get those boring, sensible linen shorts and a witty graphic tee. But your body? It’s craving danger, baby. The danger that only a one-piece garment with an absurdly whimsical print can give you.

Plus, I have pockets. That’s right. Single keys, lucky pennies, bite-sized Snickers… throw ’em all in there, girl. I got you.

I can tell by your coy smile that you’re already fantasizing about all the summer adventures you could have in me. Eating soft-serve with rainbow sprinkles at one of those adorable roadside stands. Riding a vintage bike with a basket to a lighthouse on some idyllic New England island. Having a picnic with jar salads in a field of tulips or whatever the hell those flowers are. You get the drift. I’m ready and willing to indulge your wildest manic pixie dream girl fantasies, so go get yourself some blunt-cut bangs and grab a ukulele or some shit. Let’s rock this.

There’s just one little catch. I’m about to ruin your life, babe.

Sure, it’s all sunshine and rainbows now. Or, more accurately, polka dots and pinwheels, because I’m delightful and quirky as fuck. But honey, you have no clue of the trouble you’re wiggling yourself into — literally.

One minute, you’ll be sitting there sipping your cold brew without a care in the world, just thinking about how cute I am. The next, you’ll realize that you’ve been crying in the bathroom stall at Starbucks for an hour because you still haven’t finished unbuttoning me. That’s how fast it’ll happen. I’m sneaky like that.

When you do manage to maneuver yourself all the way out of me through the combination of pure, unfettered willpower and strategically-sequenced yoga poses, you’ll then be forced to endure phase two: the existential crisis of being naked, vulnerable, and alone in a public restroom. My love is like a rollercoaster, baby. Wanna ride?

Word on the street is that you’re planning on wearing me to a music festival next weekend. That’s rich! I’m the reason the porta-potty lines are so long at Coachella AND why Woodstock 50 was canceled. Even I’m in awe of my own power sometimes. So, unless you’re down to have your own little Fyre Festival, I’d reconsider.

Don’t even think about trying to go all boss bitch by rocking me at the office, either. If you do, block off your calendar from noon until quittin’ time and prepare yourself for the longest “lunch” of your goddamn life. My sole mission is to make you look as charming as possible while also ensuring that you’re filled with extreme anxiety and dread every single time you even entertain the idea of urinating. All. Day. Long.

Still, there’s not a tank-top-and-skirt combo in the entire world that can compare to me in terms of sheer youthful effervescence, and you know it. I’m an Instagram wet dream — no filter necessary for this absolute masterpiece of a onesie. You might be able to resist the temptation today. Maybe even tomorrow. But sooner or later, I’ll frolic right into your dreams with the fire of a thousand Zooey Deschanel characters and you’ll have no choice but to admit that we go together like a rustic Anthropologie tea set, completely forgetting about the havoc I’ve wreaked on you every cruel summer.

See you at Lollapalooza, darlin’.