“This doesn’t have anything to do with you,” he informs me, apparently immovable. “I don’t want to fight with you. I’m not trying to close you out or hurt your feelings, but I don’t want to talk about this, and I need you to respect that.” Launching up off the couch, wide-eyed, I tell him, “And I didn’t want to blow you in front of your douchebag teammates or give you my virginity in Cartwright’s basement. Sometimes you don’t get what you want, and all you can do is fucking deal with it.” That should be the truth, that should be the winning hand. As much as I’ve overlooked for him, I really
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