I mean, really: what kind of person could possibly dislike me?

She really did like me, the idiot.

But of course, there's no rest for the wicked, which I certainly am; as I said, no rest for the wicked.

And so as much as I can, I care about her, dear Deborah. It's probably not love, but I would rather she were happy.

I stood up. It was all too much. I could not even meet my own expectations, and to be asked to deal with all theirs too was suffocating.

...my conscience has the same hard reality as a unicorn.

And I was having too much fun to stop now.