If I assume it is, I'll be forced to conclude that you've never loved me, because I know for a fact that you've loved at least one of the women you've dated.
If that's the conclusion you want me to draw, I'd like you to tell me now, so I can adjust my life accordingly.
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Believe that if you want to.
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I'm just curious.
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If that's the conclusion you want me to draw, I'd like you to tell me now, so I can adjust my life accordingly.
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And I have no idea. And if I got out a calculator and a day planner for the last twenty years, whatever number I came up with would mean nothing.
I'm an idiot about love.
You know that.
That doesn't make what you and I have an iota less valuable.
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I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude.
And you're not an idiot about love. I'm sure of that much.
My number is 5. If we're being honest.
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If I'd stopped at 5, I would probably have been emotionally stunted from the age of 15.
Might have been shot at a lot less, though.
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You can't help who you fall in love with.
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But there ought to be a way to stop them from shooting at you.
Generic you, there.
I'm sure it never happened to you.
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Come to think of it, you're the lover who's brought me the most physical harm.
That woman who shot you was crazy from the start. It wasn't your fault.
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I was never that fond of her.
More of the women who shot at me. Natasha. Paris. Brit -- uh, Whitney. God, Wayne is contagious.
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