I still laugh at the bad jokes, the sad situations. At the rain when it wets my clothes. At the empty noise of my thoughts.

I told you I won't let myself be happy, you asked me why.

"Just because"

"That's not an answer"

It is when you are me. But I said nothing.

You have so much information about me now. It makes me uncomfortable. You say what you think, so confident, believing you know the truth. How does it feel to be always right?

And if I smoke today and in fifty years I see the consequences, will you be there to tell me 'I told you so'?

Stereotypes help me put my head in order. They are carefully assembled and are costume in the way I interpret people, so fuck off.

Does your wife dress you up? Combine the whites, blacks and light browns? Are your parents alive? Do you come from a wealthy family? Why did you live a year in the States? Do you listen to what we are saying? I don't really care. Nothing has to do with you, but with my idea of you. You tell me not to follow an ideal, but how can I not? Reality ends up being so boring.

My sister said your eyes are way separated from each other; I do look at you when you are trying to get your point across. But I'm never able to see your shark eyes.

Why do you have to always bring them to the conversation? You want me to start feeling the need of having my own family and to be independent. What do you do after you have the career, the wife, the children, the house, the car, the money?

All I want is a white house. You should know that I am just content with a good book to read.

You tell me how you walk throw New York, throw all the dark streets, how you run away when trouble was near. How if I stay until August you will bring me a present from Van Gogh's museum.

I want to get my hair shorter, tell you that I have no "needs", as you put it. That I am unhappy just because that's the way I am. You want to turn me into this normal person, I fought all my life not to be. You want me to be a part of something. When in real life, I am the one in the corner lighting up a cigarette, speaking only to myself.

I want to talk about movies, music, and art. You tell me you know nothing about art. I say nothing, I just want to leave. You sound so stupid sometimes.

I am able to speak quick sentences when I am in the office, some makes you laugh or you are just being polite, if you are, fuck you.

I don't want to go next Tuesday, you crash my bubble.

But then, maybe I do want you to crash my bubble.

Who, the fuck, knows?