Paint that shit gold.

I don't know why I expected anything different. You seem to be right back where you started except everything is two years later.

You don't know what it means to feel or to love or to care. You've got amnesia. You can't remember a God damned thing. You talk down about love like you were never in it. You don't know shit about shit. You hide behind your car and all your clothes and your shoes and your girls and your Solo cups and music and films. You watch other people feel so you don't have to.

You think you've got it all figured out but you don't know shit. You look into my eyes and fucking lie, lie, lie. And you think I can't tell. You think I can't tell that you're broken. I broke you!

And I hate who you are but that's partially my fault too. Your "philosophy on life" sounds like something you'd find on the inside cover of a self-help book for motherless frat boys. Right up your alley. You're not Tom Cruise, this is not Vanilla Sky -- I promise. This is not lucid dreaming or 150 years later. This is five months and we're still texting.

Wake up.

That's not a philosophy. It's a fucking excuse. Because you're a child and you still haven't learned how to deal with your emotions. And to think I was getting down on myself for my coping strategies!

This is the next level of emotion. Not love or lust or saddness or diminished intrigue but disgust. You make me fucking sick. Your whole life is one big fucked up lie just so you won't have to say you're sorry.

Who lives like that? How can you live like that?

That was dream. This is real.