While waiting to take the 70 bus downtown the other day, I noticed that written on the Bay 4 metro bus stop was “UW men = stupid stuck up (insert any profanity here of your choice).” I started laughing. Until I looked closer, and noticed it really read “UW women = stupid stuck up (same profanity).” The “w” and “o” had been erased. How clever.

Whether or not it’s UW women or men who are stuck up, profane objects is irrelevant. This wasn’t the handy work of the next Banksy-esque graffiti artist, oh no. This is quite obviously the handy work of limerance.

As discussed last week, limerance is like a crush, but worse. You’re infatuated with someone but don’t know why. You tell your friends you’re in love. They roll their eyes. You see this eye roll, but can’t help it. You continue talking about him, or her, the way you have every day for a month. Or longer.

In times of reciprocation with your limerant lover, you feel elation. In times of rejection, you fall into a deep depression. The kind that makes you want to paint your room black and never leave.

I think limerance is getting more common in our generation. And text messaging is to blame. In the beginning of relationships, communication is crucial in both its verbal and non-verbal form.

Too many times I’ve seen friends obsessively text message in these precious moments of relationship infancy, and relying on text messaging can only lead to more questions instead of answers. (Are they flirting? Are they being ironic and sarcastic? Or are they really just a jerk?) Though its convenience saves you from potentially awkward moments, like stuttering or spilling stuff at an impromptu coffee date, what you risk is your relationship taking a turn right down limerance lane instead of romance road, all due to little misunderstandings.

To illustrate this devastating effect: Here is a series of texts between someone I know well and the object of her limerance after their third date, which ended up with a cuddle fest in his apartment. She was psyched she found someone she dug, whom she thought dug her back. She was wrong about the mutual digging. I translated the text messages for her the next day (but probably incorrectly).

Him: You left your necklace @ my place. I think. (Translation: I am such a pimp. I just want you to know that).

Her: I don’t think I’m missing one. (Translation: You’re a dog, but now that I know you’re desired by other women with a fondness for big necklaces, I’m starting to like you more).

Her: What does it look like? (Translation: What does it look like?)

Him: Silver. Long. With dangling crap. (Translation: I’m so cool and indifferent and manly that I can’t go into details about something as trivial as a necklace that may or may not be yours.)

Her: Well, looks like we’ll have to hang out again so I can take a look at them. (Translation: Our makeout session was so hot and steamy, and now that I suspect you’re playing me harder than the brass horns at a Manheim Steamroller concert, I want you even more).

Him: Oh. Fine. (Translation: Actually, I still don’t really know).

They never hung out again after that night. Was something said in these texts that irreparably damaged the relationship? Did he like her but was scared off by her eager texting and failed attempts at T9 flirting? Did he even like her in the first place? She’ll never know.

So, before you pull out your pen and mutilate a bus stop because you don’t understand what’s going on with the object of your limerance, put a lid on it, take a deep breath, and whatever you do, refrain from texting him or her. If you want something fleeting and fun, then fine, go for it. But if your intentions are a little more serious and honest, why don’t you just make a phone call instead?

Or if it just seems hopeless, get the pen out. And this time, make sure it’s a Sharpie.

Next week: The relationship sabbatical: Why you should tell your significant other to get lost every two months. They’ll thank you for it.

[Reach columnist Erin Hicks at features@thedaily.washington.edu.]