“I just can’t deal with you anymore.”
“Deal with what?”
“Your vain, narcissistic belief that you are some kind of genius. Always talking like you’re on a chat show in the future, doing things now so they could make amusing anecdotes in the future where you assume you’re famous. It’s exhausting being there for you, the dramatic highs and creative lows where you turn into a needy child in search of validation, your ego deflated to a dangerous level. It’s just too much. I want someone, normal. Someone who asks me about my day instead of being so wrapped up in, oh for Fuck sake, are you kidding me!? Stop writing this down. Why can’t you just live the moment you’re in for once in your fucking life? One day you’re going to look up from that pen and see that everyone is gone.”
I stopped writing, looked up and she was.