I'm really tired of you playing hard to get.
You've gotten predictable that way. In the mornings, you're like, "Yeah, I'm for realz here for u!" and then in the evening, your tune has changed to, "Well, I dunno."
At least learn some grammar if you're going to start hating on me. I will not hesitate to bitch-slap you with a dictionary. The Oxford English Dictionary. All 20 volumes.
I don't know what to do with you anymore. Yes, I'm still interested in pursuing this. But every time you get flaky on me, you start talking about "commitment" and "contracts" and "installation fees." Hell, commitment is expensive. You think I want that?
Your little game of cat and laser pointer has gotten old. I know what you're trying to do: you want me to finally admit how much I need you and give in to my anger. You want me to turn to the Dark Side and hope I'll sign my life away to you, resulting in long-term indebtedness, relinquishment of our first born, and the implosion of my home planet.
Okay, maybe it wouldn't be that bad. But we're talking about commitment, here. Scary stuff.
Maybe I'd be less afraid of committing if I knew you weren't going to turn and run at the first sign of construction equipment outside, or at the first sign of absolutely nothing at all. Plus, I'm not all that interested in the way your little signal tower is always flashing anyone in the room.
You could at least keep it in your pants.
Your potential "hook-up,"
P.S. If I had cats, they probably wouldn't like you either.