"Seriously?"

"Yes."

"You fuckin' kiddin me."

"No, I'm not."

"You're fuckin' crazy."

"That, I'm."

"Do you always prefer talking just enough ??"

"Yes."

"why?"

"why what?"

"Why as in... everything. Why do you always act like you're a fuckin loser ??? Why do you always have to be so fuckin' hard on yourself ??? Why is Stan the way I know Stan ??"

"Lets answer that in 3 words. Too many questions."

"Fuck you."

"See. You aren't the editor of Vanity Fair, I ain't Scarlett Johannson. Also, I wouldn't be answering your questions, even if you were."

"You always have your way with arguments. Incoherent, illogical, irrational arguments. "

"It's a talent, I feel so proud of."

"And sarcasm. Add that too in your talent list."

"Uhh.. Okay. If you say so."

"Don't do this to yourself. You're gonna end up hurting yourself."

"Fuck you."

23rd December.

Stan's life. It's pretty fucked up, you know. I can't really help noticing how he manages to still contradict everything with his attitude. The way he takes on life. Memories. Time. From my point of view, this guy can still straighten his things. Pull up his socks, and turn things back to the way they were. But the uncanny ability of his to ignore all pieces of advice thrown up to him, makes him one hell of an asshole.