A woman who hates you is playing the pianoforte.
You have five hundred a year. From who? Five hundred what? No one knows. No one cares. You have it. It’s yours. Every year. All five hundred of it.
A charming man attempts to flirt with you. This is terrible.
You are in a garden, and you are astonished.
Free advice: if you’re the “worst” or the “meanest” or the “entire problem” or the “entire” anything, the “best” or the “most beautiful” or “the only thing”: run like hell, because that’s them getting their personal stuff all over you, and you’re not a real actual person in the world anymore, at least at that moment, because tyou’ve become a symbol to them, and there’s no talking to people like that. Beware the superlative, dude: Jabberwocky’s got nothing on that mother.