i’m sitting in your mom’s hoodie, listening to michael buble sing about him and mrs. jones, and wondering just what i’m doing here. yes, i know i’m sitting in an art gallery filled with beautiful paintings of lost lovers and beautiful girls who would grow up and find out that the world isn’t as beautiful as their pictures. but why exactly am i here, in this chair? why aren’t i in paris, in NY again, in my bed, in yours? Why can’t I think of one good reason that i’m not where I used to be and not the girl I used to know. I’m sorry that I hurt you but deep down inside you must know it was for the better. I can’t live unhappily and if you love me like you say you do then how can you be happy if I’m not? Am i even making any sense?