It goes without saying that I don't like you. You know I don't.
I tell them all the time that you shouldn't come live with us. I try to get them to tell you not to come. Why do you think they are so frantic to get you back here? Why do you think they were almost feverishly trying to find a cheaper ticket and trying to get you here by the weekend?
It's not that they don't deserve you. They don't deserve anyone, or anything.
And you make me want to scratch my eyes out, nay, your eyes out, with all the sappy shit you say to them.
I told them that when you didn't say anything last night about them saying they shouldn't write a book, but were only silent, it's because you don't think they should either. I told them that all their fears about not being good enough, not having anything new to say, all of their fears about writing a book were true, and that you not saying a word only proved it...same with how they joked about the author you are reading tonight, and said you could have saved a lot of trouble by researching and finding another sick girl (<-my term for writing, not the exact words they said) only a couple hours away. And you were silent...so I told them you probably agreed.
They're never going to be happy, you know that right? I'll make sure of it, and if you live with us I will make you watch me keep them from being happy.
Look what they've done to men, to people...to themselves; they don't deserve anything.
I hate you.
Now if I could just convince them that all their Twitter followers hate them, and are only nice in writing, that they are all pretending to find them interesting. Then my life would be complete, and we could stop fucking around on Twitter.
You know, I kind of like that name. Think I'll change it. Thanks for naming me, James.