Don’t give me that nonsense. I can already tell you’re trying to make this my fault.
But make no mistake: you’re in the trunk of the car because the trunk is where you belong. Can’t you tell, just by the way people look at you? Don’t you see that they’ve judged you, and found you wanting? Surely you’ve noticed that delicate mixture of pity and contempt in their eyes, or the strained smiles they reserve just for you and all the other well-meaning fuck-ups and social defectives that litter their lives? They didn’t want this for you, of course; they were simply comfortable letting it happen.
Do you know how many times your friends and family could have stopped me from taking you? If your boyfriend had bothered to fix the lock on your bedroom window —you know, like you asked at least ten times— I might have never made it inside. If your dad had given you a little help with your rent —instead of, say, blowing his savings on an upgrade to your stepmom’s pathetic tits— you could have lived in a nicer neighborhood, and it would have been some other girl coming home to a bare cupboard, an empty bed, and a closet full of me. If your mother had taken the slightest pride in you —if she’d bothered to note what an obvious slut you were becoming— you might have developed a little dignity, and I would have never noticed you at all.
Really, when you think about it, I’m just providing a service by hauling off the clutter they couldn’t bring themselves to throw away.