I’m fucking tired of your love stories. And I’m tired of my love stories too. And I just want to move to California and wash all of these words off of me in the ocean. I think that would make me feel better. Refreshed. It might help me sober up, too, because I’m high right now, and I’ve been drinking since I woke up, and I probably need a detox. That’s what she thinks at least. But fuck her, this isn’t about her. And I fucking hate love stories. This is about me, Lou Radmush… I mean Rasmus. Shit. I guess I’m more drunk than I thought. And so I guess that maybe she’s right, and maybe this should be about her. Another fucking love story. I hate myself.