You slap me. You scream. I say you're insane. I escape upstairs. I never pretended to be grown up. Suddenly you're in my face with all these assumptions. I think I'm so cool. I think I'm so smart. But really, I am nothing but a disgusting teenager. You're yelling in my ear and my hands are shaking. I don't want you to see me cry. You cry, you're trying to make me feel bad. I don't cry because I don't want you to know that it's working. All I hear is your voice eight octaves higher than it should. It fills my ears and grates my throat. So I drown you out with no alarms and no surprises and suddenly he's killing himself for recognition and killing himself to never ever stop. I ignore you. You get tired. You go downstairs. I'm alone and he's telling me to suck my teenage thumb.

I don't know if you're sure. I don't care, I am. Sure, that is. Certain that we could make this work. You drink brandy and wear sweaters, I drink rum and coke and wear sweatpants and tube socks. You listen to the Shins and I admitted that I have a small crush on Joe Jonas. I like to dance and make sundaes. Sundaes with everything on them. You like sundaes with everything on them. You just sit there and I have no clue what you're thinking. Do you think I'm shallow? That I'm immature? I don't care. I live in my head, so I can just make you think that I'm pretty and witty. Rum and coke. Rum and coke. Goofy sweaters. Tumblers with half an inch of brandy. Music. And gingers do have souls! Have a good night.