I want to kill him I want to murder him I want to hit him and scream and have him see me cry. I hate him. I love him. I want him to see me.
I hate love. I pity every poor bastard that suffers it.
Why did you have to go and do that, dear?
Questions I Won’t Ask Because They’ll ruin Everything:
Why did you start talking to me in the first place?
Is it true what Natalie told me?
No. It can’t be. It isn’t.
So why? Why do you talk to me more than all the others online? Why do you… appreciate, I guess, what I read, what I think?
Why do you ask me how I am?
Why do you always come back?
Why do you not get tired by hearing me complain, or quote, or be sarcastic, or anything else (or at least not show it)?
Why are you doing this? I’m only a friend of your girlfriend – why did you become my friend too?
What exactly do I mean to you?
Why do you talk to me?