I love being with you. I love seeing your goofy smile. Your crooked nose. I love your mouth breathing. I love our days. The drives. The laughter. The jokes. The cigarettes. The nachos. The songs that we sing off-key to on the radio. I love that you get jealous over nothing and sometimes order me around. But you hold my purse and stand outside the bathroom door. You carry my things in your pockets even if I have my own. You go out of your way for me and don’t mind me when I’m sloppy and drunk.
But I’m sure you’re just using me somehow. You said it yourself—-you’ll never be with me. I’m ugly. I’m a horrible, fake-ass, cunt. And you only need a ride right now. You need company. You’re lonely and want a girlfriend, but you’re settling for a girl friend until you find someone who’s skinny and blonde. Then I’ll be a stranger again.
But I’m okay with that, because I love what we have and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.