I feel terrible.” “You look terrible.” I pulled my hood up and sank back into my chair. “I wonder if there’s a level of terribleness to succumb to before death.” “Well, I’m glad you’re not one to be melodramatic or anything,” he said with a smirk. “Stop being pitiful.” I whined. “Please be nice to me.” “I have no sympathy for self-inflicted wounds.” “But I’m suffering.” “Tequila will do that to you.” I almost gagged. “I will pay you to never say the T-word again.”
