[Group drunk-texting Harrow is the perfect way to see out the evening, clearly. She stares at her own half-eaten quatre of cheesecake as though trying to decide whether more cake is the answer, or whether she's lost her appetite.]

I dunno. I'm not even sure what she's into, you know? Aside from bones and frozen corpses. Hard as it is to believe, maybe I'm just not her type. Although I did spend years thinking she fucking hated my guts when she spent all that time considering me to be the only friend she had.

[To be fair, the 'treat em mean, keep em keen' approach kind of worked in this scenario.]

But what am I meant to do? Just come out with it and say yo, skullface. Wanna be my girlfriend? I can see the disgust in her sneer as we speak.