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“You’re going in your sweaty clothes?” I ask. “What else would I wear? Grandpa Fruckface’s chinos?”
“I don’t mind playing uber, but we should take Reese with us.” “What do you think Constance would do to him?” he asks. “Teach him how to badly crochet?”
“I washed your clothes,” I tell him. “They’re in the dryer.” “Oh, thank God. I thought we were going to have to be seen with him like this,”
“He’s the kind of guy who writes a song about a generic woman and then tells every girlfriend it’s about her.”
“For someone who’s smart, you’ve got a good bit of stupid in you.”
They’ve claimed me, and I let them. I’ve wanted to claim them too, but the voice in my head is very clear in its opinions about that. You bring everyone you love down. You’ll destroy them. You’ll have to watch it happen and know it’s your fault.
