James Joyce is Not a Good Boyfriend

From Lily in Venice-

I met you at a party on a ranch in the mountains of Los Angeles county. You were living with some childhood friends who had moved out here to “create music, man”. You were a conventionally good-looking one- looking a lot like the pop idols of the 70’s with long, flowy blond hair and high cheek bones. Actually, you look more like a chick. I wasn’t attracted to you. You kept following me around the party and talked about how much you hated everything. I got drunk and you seemed interested, so we made out until we both fell asleep. I slipped out in the morning and I was surprised to get a call from you two days later. We began seeing each other and you had nice hands. It started to dawn on me how crazy you were when you never changed out of the one three piece wool suit you owned and you talked of being the reincarnation of James Joyce. But you were such a good cuddler. You talked about how this town was going to kill you or that your intellect would slowly make you go insane. I threatened to walk and every time you pleaded with me not to go, until one day you told me you “didn’t want a girlfriend.” You couldn’t get over the equitable basket-case you dated a year ago (who claimed to have lost your baby) and I wasn’t going to “fix you”, as you so plainly stated. You said you were afraid of having meaningful sex with someone blah blah blah BLAH BLAH! You and I pretend to be friends now but I don’t particularly like you as a person and I want to yell that to your face. So I just picked up the phone to do that and instead we talked for an hour about nothing and I felt empty. P.S. Now I actually don't talk to you. Someone told me you stuck your thumb in the ground one day for a few hours. Why? P.S.S. I was forced to talk to you the other day at our mutual friends' concert. You complained to everyone that I wouldn't talk to you. Cut your hair!