Look lady, there is a very easy way to get me to stop sleeping in my car—okay, fine: my mother’s car, let’s not make this about semantics—across the street from your apartment: TAKE ME BACK. I know you are sick of paying for us to go to the movies just so I can spend half the time in the lobby because, in your words, ‘I can’t handle conflict.’ And I’m sorry eating Burger King’s seasonal teriyaki burger a few times in the six or eight weeks it’s available every year isn’t enough ‘ethnic’ food for you. Yes, I’m a little weary of strange foreign foods, and there’s a reason we don’t eat rice in this country that rhymes with ‘trench tries,’ but if you take me back I promise I’ll finally try it.
If you can forgive me for choosing a new ringtone at your grandmother’s funeral, I’ll forgive you for calling my MS Paint ode to you ‘creepy.’ That’s my Mona Lisa, lady. Baby, let’s get back together, and I’ll reconsider my demand that we name our firstborn Puddleglum. How do you feel about Glimfeather?