What?

I hate parties. I hate partying. I don't want to get drunk with you.
I won't. You can't make me.

I'm in control of the situation, tough luck, honeys.



I'll just sit at home and listen to the beach boys, because it makes me fell endlessly temporarily better.



I still like you. And I don't want to.



I feel gross and ugly and terrible.

I am cryptic and weird.
I think I'll eat dinner.