How dare you. How dare you do this to me, make me your ideal, your idol, your perfect seventeen-year-old romantic daydream. You don't know anything about me. Don't know that I've played this role before, in the drowsy truth between the sad dreams of my own youth. I have meant too much to people -- to men -- who have given me much too little in return. You, like they, do not have a right to my joys and fears and passions, because that is what this is about. My body, my face, my eyes, my lips, they're overtalked and dull and they were never at the heart of what you wanted anyway.
How dare you smile that smile as I mention Leopold Bloom. I am not available to you as some kind of psychic reflection of who you wish you could be. No part of me wants you to intellecutally relate to me. Your martyrdom is sickening, gut-wrenching, embarrassing.
Stop reading books that I've mentioned. Stop recommending bands that I'd like. Stop raising your eyebrows like we're sharing some kind of perfect secret. Nothing about this is perfect. Nothing here is good. If it could have been, it's too late. You and I made our decisions and your vascillating behavior disgusts me. Offends me.
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