"I don't get it," he said. "How do you get away with everything I can't?"

"Well," she said, propping her feet up on his knee and exhaling smoke through her nose, "there are two explanations. Both are simple, but only one of them will satisfy you. At least let me assure you I agree with neither.

"The first: I'm young. I'm permitted so many mistakes as part of the learning process of growing up. I'm also a woman. This society is still fond of the notion of the fairer sex. A woman could never be evil. I also have it on good authority that I'm attractive. A charming smile and witty remark absolves all."

He was scowling now. "You're perfect. I know," he ground out through clenched teeth. "Trust me, I fucking get it. But you didn't answer my question."

"No, I believe I did. You're just hearing what you want to hear." She placed her cigarette between her lips and stared at the ceiling, at a smear of red paint vaguely shaped like a long knife. They had deduced some time ago that it was paint and not blood, but they still amused themselves for hours with tales of how it got there. The house's former tenant had painted a warning to future inhabitants. This house was three years old and identical to its neighbour, save for the kitchen and living room being flip-flopped in the floor plan.

"I know when you're at your lowest it feels like everyone has it better than you. You might be surprised to find otherwise, if you just pull yourself out of your little spiral of self-loathing and pity. But I won't judge you if you can't do that right now, because most of the time I can't either. That's why I'm the way I am. I'm at my best when surrounded by people more miserable than I. I take sick pleasure when someone better off than me loses their job or their significant other. I take the same joy when someone is wallowing in greater misery than I and I can stand there and dispense advice I'd never follow myself. At the end of the day all that matters is what I want and that I get it, at any cost. Karma doesn't exist; I've been told this enough times now after basing much of my life around it. It's a fucking absurd concept anyway. If I break your heart why should that prevent a girl who doesn't know either of us from coming home with me and sleeping with me tonight?

And you wanna know something? None of it matters. Anyone else could listen to me say this and think I'm just blowing off steam. The only person who's ever actually seen me do these things is you, and who will believe you? I'm not like you, you see. There are a number of people who don't like me hanging out with you. They think you're a bad influence, that you drag me down. In a way they're right. But I choose to keep coming back. Why? Maybe because I'm waiting for the day when you get it together. Maybe because I'm just as fucked up as you and I'm just better at hiding it. Or maybe because I need an occasional reminder that things could be worse. No matter how bad things seem, at least I'm not you."