Well, whatever you do, however terrible, however hurtful, it all makes sense, doesn’t it, in your head. You never meet anybody that thinks they’re a bad person.
And that’s the irony, Marge. I loved you. You may as well know it, Marge: I loved you. I don’t know… maybe it’s grotesque of me to say this now, so just write it on a piece of paper or something and put it in your purse for a rainy day. ‘Tom loves me.’ ‘Tom loves me.’