You’re educated, but kind of stupid. You’re grown, but an infantile mess. You’re overflowing with the future, and yet studiously fixated on an ever-shrinking sliver of the past. The only truly volitional, defining acts of your life have been your squandering of opportunities and refusal of responsibilities. You’re a laughable sham of an adult, a makeshift assemblage of ruinous instincts, warped ideas, and recursive anxieties that somehow looks fetching in a skirt.
But sure, I guess I love you. Why do you ask?