It has been almost three weeks since I whispered those words to you in the front seat of my car. Three weeks since that crooked grin lit your face (why is it always the guys with crooked grins?!), and your lips touched mine. Three weeks since you said "Give me twenty-four hours." And three weeks since I drove home, singing to Damone as my heart soared to the midnight skies. Three weeks. And I am FUCKING SICK OF THIS. Tomorrow is going to be it. THE DAY. You're last shot at saying yes or no (One word. Two or three letters. JUST SAY SOMETHING ALREADY!!!), and if you don't, I'm walking away. And the last thing you will see is my curvy ass, and middle finger flipping you the bird. Asshole. And then Athena's going to kick your ass to your beloved Japan. And back. How 'bout THEM apples, bitch?! So really, you should just answer me when I walk up to you tomorrow, grin my own mischievous little smile, and say "General Chicken, lo mein, and an answer to my question please. . . .PRETTY BOY!" Maybe love for you, ME.

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