“I never really liked him,” she mused aloud as we walked on. “I always thought he was gross and kind of an
idiot.” She laughed her mean laugh, “I
just liked that he loved me.” I laughed
a mean laugh too because I knew what she meant and that was what made us both
mean: we knew what it was to hate the person who says “I love you.” And if you
hate the person who loves you, you can be damn sure that sooner or later you’ll
start hating yourself. And that makes
you mean.
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