We were at the corner of Santa Monica and Beverly Glen, the good gas station that always had every flavor of Snapple, and he asked if it was better to love someone more than they love you, or if I’d rather have it the other way around where I’d love them more. Would they love me at all I asked and he said Maybe, but you’d always love them more, you’d be the one doing the chasing. So I said I’d rather be loved more but I didn’t mean it. What I really wanted was to leave. Weeks later I stood in my apartment, stoned, waiting for him to come rescue me because he had the good drugs to calm me down. That is how you know you are the loved and not the lover. And it doesn’t feel as good as you thought it would. It actually feels like nothing.