To the boy shooting blanks:
Nobody believes you when you hold her hand. There’s no conviction, no blood flow, no heart. This is not the action of a joyful early Beatles song. You know it; we know it: Your love has gone limp. But if you can’t let go of her, that’s okay – just know I still hate you, and still think you’re great.
To the boy shooting drinks:
This is a fun game, but sooner or later we’ll have to stop looking so scared. I don’t think drugs are gonna help you; I don’t think extra lip gloss is gonna help me. Maybe it’s an after-midnight thing that happens when souls hatch open because you’re too tired to guard them. Maybe it’s a Montauk thing, when seeing a bathing suit leads to seeing the future. Either way, we probably need a carton of cigarettes and a dying cell phone. And I don’t even smoke.
To the boy shooting the breeze:
Next time, I’ll say yes.
[SS FAIR - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]