I don’t like wondering if you think I’m funny, or if you think I’m pretty, or if you even like speaking to me. But you keep talking in my direction so I tell myself you must, or you simply like the sound that the keyboard makes as it resonates off the walls of your room.

I can’t help but wonder if this is all an elaborate ruse to reverse the effects of whatever events lead up to the slight deflation of your ego. Subterfuge at it’s finest. Memories you’ve so methodically and carefully chosen to play on like a sad, sad song. Your timing is uncanny, your precision immaculate as the pendulum swings across the playing field with it’s constant upheaval of balance.

And yet, I sit and wonder, still…