I Don't Get This At All. It's

I Never Have People Tell Me Their Stories. I Usually Have To Figure Them Out Myself. Because I Know That If People Tell Me Stories, They Will Expect Them To Be Remembered. And I Cannot Guarantee That. There Is No Way To Know If The Stories Stay After I'm Gone. And How Devastating Would It Be To Confide In Someone And Have The Confidence Disappear? I Don't Want To Be Responsible For That.

I Try To Be A Careful Person. Most Of The Time My Carelessness Is Completely Unintentional.

I Have Taken Advantage Of Other People's Weaknesses In Order To Cover My Own.

They Never Played Games With Each Other, They Never Had Tow Worry Where They Stood, Because If Either Of Them Had A Moment Of Wavering, The Other Would Say I Love You And Would Mean It And All Doubts Were Forgiven Because In This One Case It Was Found That Love Conquers All.

We Could Call You An Ambisexual. A Duosexual. A—” “do I Really Have To Find A Word For It?” Kyle Interrupts. “can’t It Just Be What It Is?” “of Course,” I Say, Even Though In The Bigger World I’m Not So Sure. The World Loves Stupid Labels. I Wish We Got To Choose Our Own. We Pause For A Moment. I Wonder If That’s All—if He Just Needed To Say The Truth And Have It Heard. But Then Kyle Looks At Me With Unsure Eyes And Says, “you See, I Don’t Know Who I’m Supposed To Be.” “nobody Does,” I Assure Him.