When will it get through your thick head that I will not answer your phone calls. I don't know who you are. I don't know your name. I don't know what you look like. I don't even know how your voice sounds. You equally don't know any of these things about me. Stop professing your love for me. Stop sending me sweet nothings in the middle of the night. Stop calling me twentyfive times a day. Get it through that empty maze of a mind that I am not one of those girls. I wouldn't even call them easy or pathetic or bored. If anything, I'd call them mindless. The fact that you're willing to subject yourself to such horrid company disgusts me. The fact that you're trying to drag me down to your level makes me want to projectile vomit onto your face. I didn't answer the first eighthundredthirtyfour times you called, I won't answer now. Stop telling me that my voice sounds like velvet; I know it doesn't, not when I've only spoken to you in contempt or in a manner of interrogation. Stop sending me off into dreamland with little ~eloquently worded messages. They're cloying at best and harrowing at worst. Just stop. The fact that you're degrading yourself in such a manner makes it impossible for me to ever acquire a scintilla of respect for you.
The title: yeah, I went there.
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