"Would you stop messing with the stereo?"
"Maybe if you would stop listening to such shitty music."
"It's my car, I make the rules."
"You messed up my hair, asshole. I think I deserve some mother fucking music rights."
"Oh god, the hair again. I'm pretty sure my stereo is more important than your damn hair. Hair grows back, in case you didn't know."
"See, this is why I broke up with you."
"What the fuck?"
"You're too protective of what's yours. It was always 'don't touch my stereo' or 'stop you're gonna break my mother fucking precious video game' or 'don't you dare let your fucking cat go near my dog, she'll scratch his eye out'"
"God, you're such a drama queen. This is what happens when you're tired, you start yelling at me for shit that doesn't matter."
"It matters, asshat!"
"And why the fuck does it matter so goddam much, then? Enlighten me, oh queen of knowledge."
"Because, pisscouch, you were never protective of me."
It's twelve AM and I find that ironic.
