Birds of the same feather flock together, they say. Not that I don't believe it, but I think it makes absolute sense. That one thing in common makes it so much easier. Although, sure, there are some cases when the most unlikely of things create the most extraordinary of bonds - perhaps some adhesive is in order, but that's slightly old-fashioned - for the most part, it still lies in that one thing.

So, this should've made a lot of sense.

To be honest, I'm not really expecting much. I wasn't looking for that extraordinary bond, although it's foolish of me to think that's what I'm looking for. Or maybe that just came in so much later. I just wanted to fit, slide in easily, find that one little thing and make the most out of it, discover that it leads elsewhere, the usual things we don't notice we're doing. But that's putting it cheesily.

Initially, I thought it's my fault, that thing not taking off. And there they go again. I said too much, you weren't ready, you didn't like what you saw, you pushed me. Yeah, that sounds like I failed again - or maybe not again, really; it was the first concerted and slightly complicated effort, after all. I blamed myself for slipping just when I tried not to. I blamed myself for blaming myself, because it made things complicated. It always did.

Or maybe not.

I don't know if it's just you attempting to look hip by forcing yourself to be different. I mean, choosing not to follow that one common thing is understandable. Maybe there's something else you're looking for. I get that. We have to do it sometimes, especially when we're dropped like needles making some unfamiliar sound. I get that you want something else, maybe because you're looking for that thing that complements what you have, rather than matches it. Fine.

What I don't understand is what you ended up doing. I mean, that? From where I see it, that's just not right, and I'm torn between laughing at your stupidity and getting frustrated at your lack of insight. That? I don't care if you find that one common thing in that, but seriously. It obviously doesn't do you any good. It obviously isn't doing anyone any good. It does everything wrong, and yet you love it so much, you willingly submit to it with, I don't know, those blank-but-loaded stares through your black spectacles.

And I tried, and I tried even more, and we tried even more, and all you gave us was a shrug, or the middle finger, in my case. And you went there quickly.

I made mistakes, sure, but I won't make it up to anyone. There's nothing wrong with unknowingly barking up the wrong tree, and there's nothing wrong with being passionate, perhaps extremely passionate, as you try to break it. What's wrong is everything about you. Everything. Everything. The world is unfair, sure, but there's nothing wrong in thinking I deserve you more than anyone else.