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Maybe I'll be alright living solitary.
Maybe I don't need anyone else to be happy.
I can just pick up the shattered pieces of my broken heart and put them back together again, only to have it broken once more; this damn cat-and-mouse game going on for the rest of my life?
Wait, why am I writing this?
Who cares if I have feelings?
I'm your doormat. Your tool. The comic relief. People like that don't have feelings, do they?
Even if they do, it's not like anyone cares.
It's not like I know how to act anyway.
People like us are doomed to live this way forever. Cause when we can't be the tool anymore, what good are we?
At least this way I know I don't have to anticipate anything. I can just live every day as if it were no different from any other. Day in, day out, it'll all be the same.
But in the end, who really cares?