She's more in love with sadness than with me. Or with him, or anybody alive.
American intellectual. Romantic mythology that wisdom comes through pain. She'd marry Suffering if the ring would fit.
Spends the weekend with her loneliness, calls to tell me how much she'll miss sex with me, that I'm the only one who's ever made her feel something or other, can't exactly articulate just what, but through the phone at the end of a solitary weekend it seems to me to be much less interesting than it does to her.
Jesus already. Throw Dostoyevsky on the fire and come over and fuck. I'll teach you the true meaning of education.