"Funny how watching myself bleed, even a little bit, has cleared my mind. Of course, it could have just been the cake."

"You know what your problem is? You never learned to just say things. You always have to make these huge, sweeping gestures-"

"I really don't think scratching up my arm a bit is a huge, sweeping gesture-"

"Well you wanted it to be, didn't you? You keep trying to make these gestures, and you always fall short because you could never go through with it. I mean, look at this. All you really need is a band-aid, and in two weeks there won't even be a scab. What did you use, a safety razor?"

"...shut up."

"Yeah, I thought so. You should have just said something, baby. We'd have listened, you know. We're your friends, but we can't very well read your mind."

"Maybe you should work on that."

"Well, right now you're thinking of how embarassed you are to be sitting here with me while I put a band-aid on your bleeding arm. It's not even bleeding that much anymore, really. I hope your head is clear, but you could've achieved that by walking outside for a little while."

"Are you kidding? In this weather? I'd suffocate and die."

"Then stick your head in the refrigerator for a little while, Jesus! Don't sit around in your bathrobe, trying to break apart your razors with a rock- and what the hell were you doing with a rock in your room, anyway?"

"I collect them, dipshit. So I can break people's skulls in their sleep. Christ, I don't know, I thought it was pretty and I picked it up years ago- it just happened to be at hand when I was contemplating self-mutilation."

"See, it's people like you that make the people with real problems look bad."

"Thank you, that makes me feel so much better."

"Oh, shut up, honestly. What are you going to do when I leave, write bad poetry? I'm telling you, you need to talk to someone. I'm right here, I'll listen."

"I have nothing to say!"

"Bullshit. You have lots to say. Tell me how worthless you feel, tell me how much you hate asking for help, and how much you hate it when people have any sort of expectations for you, because you know you'll disappoint them. Just let it all out, I'm not going anywhere."

"If you know everything already, then why should I have to say anything?"

"Because if you don't, it just sits in your skull and rots like the rest of your brain does whenever you don't do anything but stare at a computer screen for hours on end. And then, when it's all rotted into purple goo, it'll drip out of your ears, and you know who they'll ask to clean it up? Me. And fuck that, man, I am not cleaining up your purple rotted brain goo. So, talk. Talk to me, baby, tell me why you tried to chew your arm off. I'm all ears."

"You're all psycho, that's what you are."

"Yeah, but I'm here, and right now I'm all you've got. So talk to me. I'll start singing if you don't."

"Oh, go on, I like a good serenade."

"Remember Bye Bye Birdie? Yeah? You don't fucking want me to serenade you, I don't have my backup with me today. So talk."

"You have shitty bedside manner, and you talk more than enough for the both of us."

"That's cool, baby, I'll just be quiet then."

"...you know, one would think, that of all the things a person could choose to do, making themselves bleed would be one of the easier ones. Couldn't even get that right."

"That's okay. It hurts when you cut yourself. Hurting yourself ain't fun."

"I thought it would help. It didn't. I thought I could get things right for once, you know? Even if all I was doing was making myself bleed just for the sake of seeing blood, I thought I could get it right. I guess I was being selfish."

"Ain't no one else around here who wants to see you bleed, sweetheart. But there's nothing wrong with doing something for yourself. Even if you're trying to slit your wrists, there's nothing wrong with trying to feel better. Your methods leave something to be desired, but there's nothing wrong with the sentiment."

"But I didn't want to kill myself. I don't want to die, you know? I just...sometimes, I don't feel like being alive, either. All I do is make other people unhappy."

"I dunno, I find you pretty fucking hilarious most of the time."

"Even now?"

"Shit, especially now. You don't find this situation amusing? Here we are, sitting on the kitchen floor with a box of band aids and the remains of a yellow sheet cake, no frosting, while I act like an ass to get you to spill your heart. What's not to laugh at?"

"We're running out of cake."

"That's the spirit! Stay there, I'll get us some frosting. You think of something to say, and when I get back, I promise I won't listen, how about that? I'll just eat some cake, and you can talk if you want, I promise not to listen."

"You're learning."

"I try. Chocolate or vanilla?"

"Both?"

"Brilliant idea! I knew I liked you for a reason. Be right back- there'd better be cake left when I return. And leave the fucking band aid alone. Christ!"

"...yeah. Totally the cake."