Me: I miss Samantha. I Miss her. I miss Samantha and she makes me feel important. She makes me feel talented. Attractive, intelligent, and wanted.
Samantha: I hate Paris. I hate you in it. I hate that you haven’t talked to me in four days. Scratch that, you haven’t tried to communicate with me in four days. I hate that you’re so scared of spending extra money you cant even text me, even though it costs like a dollar fifty at most. for one lousy text.* I dont know, maybe you dropped your phone off the Eiffel Tower. Maybe you accidentally left it at a patisserie, or some baker threw it in the dough for his baguettes. And then when you passed a pay phone you tripped over a leftover criossante and what with all the wine you’d been drinking couldn’t quite remember my number anyways, was it six sept huit, or huit neuf sept? Who knows those French numbers are so confusing anyway. You of course resigned to knowing that our undying love would allow me to telepathically know that you were alive and well and missing me. How generous of you.
