You called me up when I was drunk. That never happened before because you've never called me since I started drinking. You didn't call me much before I started drinking. Or write much either. But that's not the point of this story. The point is, you called me. You wanted to know "what's up?" I said hopefully the rum and cokes would stay down. You wanted to know what else I knew. I said not to get too inquisitive because I was quite drunk and quite honest. I'm alright now. But you persisted. I said you weren't such a bitch after having called me, at least it seemed like you gave a shit. You said you did and I believed you. I probly shouldn't have. You said you missed me and wanted me to come back and sleep with you. That I didn't belieive. You didn't either. You said you missed me, anyway. I missed you too, but I didn't say so. I didn't say much anyway, and the awkward silence was half my fault. Neither of us admited to our halves, we came as clean as we should. I thought I did, I think I'm always honest with you and this time was no exception. I don't khow what you thought, and I know you wouldn't fucking tell me. But my honesty is far from the truth and I don't know what to think of you. The best. Then you hung up first and I stayed on the line.